


We make mistakes, we leave them by the door

by Dapperscript, merrythoughts



Series: Your eyes say so much to me [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aggression, Anal Fingering, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Collars, Disturbing Themes, Domestic, Established Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kink Negotiation, Leashes, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Nightmares, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Power Dynamics, Ravenstag, Rimming, Roughhousing, Safewords, Scars, Sequel, Sub Hannibal, Switching, Top Hannibal, Top Will, Trauma, Violence, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 160,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: He will not ask Will to voice those thoughts out loud. In that single moment, he had seen enough that he didn't need the confirmation. In the end, despite his protestations and hissed vows to the contrary, Will Graham had given him his heart after all.[Sequel toDo you feel the hunger, does it howl inside?A post-fall story.]





	1. Blame/Trust

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry for the repost!)  
> Hello! It's highly recommended that you read the first story before this sequel.  
> To our past readers, confused about all the tags depicting roles and whatnot (° o°)!? Please trust us, things will become more clear in chapter 2 and onward.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why wouldn't you fucking mention my goddamn wedding ring?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to [ TempestandTeacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestandTeacup/pseuds/TempestandTeacup) for the beta & assistance with French! ♥

Will isn't plagued by dreams of going off the bluff anymore. He's not nearly as haunted by the decisions of his past, by his choice to give into Hannibal's pull and then, months later, actually  _choose_ him. It's been over half a year since they survived the Dragon and the plunge into the ocean. Will is much more settled, routines and Hannibal becoming familiar and even appreciated. Will drinks quite a bit less and sleeps in Hannibal's - no, in their bed - every night. The master bedroom is  _their_ bedroom now, his clothes and other assorted items having been moved in. The house is now a  _home_ and he finds solace in that instead of a once held trepidation. But perhaps the biggest unspoken change is that Will Graham loves Hannibal Lecter and they both  _know_ it.

He hasn't outright said it. Will's doesn't let himself think on it all too often, but the morning after he'd taken his monumental misstep, after he'd manipulated Hannibal into killing for him, they'd made love; there's no other word for it. Will had looked inside Hannibal - granted, it hadn't been intentional - but he'd seen enough. He'd glimpsed the staggering devotion and fear; it had sparked a chain reaction in him. Yes, he'd known Hannibal had loved him and he even pushed Hannibal to say it, liking the declaration, but to  _experience_ it? To  _see_ how he had singularly affected this man... well, it had been disconcerting and there was no unseeing it. No unfeeling it.

Will may have broken the rules - no duplicity - but Hannibal had forgiven him (as was his mandate). Hannibal had dealt with him, calmed him, listened to him and still loved him despite it all. It was a gift Will had been unprepared to receive, but gratefully accepted nonetheless. (He feels like he still doesn't deserve it, but like a greedy child, his hands keep reaching and Hannibal keeps giving.) No, none of it is a healthy relationship. They're co-dependent in the worst way. They're far too possessive of each other, but Will doesn't want anything to change.

Despite the searing intimacy of the 'morning after', they remain comfortable, but careful. He doesn't want to lose himself in Hannibal, so intensity is moderated to some degree. Hannibal, like always, reads and adjusts accordingly to Will. They're intimate, but it's not exactly the same as their first time - there's less eye contact, less  _vulnerability,_ but it's still meaningful. Will takes great care and interest in learning Hannibal's body and he doesn't take for granted that he's allowed to fuck the older man. Hannibal proves that he has quite the oral fixation and Will has no complaints about these new developments in the least. He's never pressured to reciprocate or go further, and these activities bring them new ways to be close. (But safety and care can lead to complacency and that's never been a good thing for either of them.)

Despite it being a month, Will isn’t dropped off at the library. They don't talk about it; they don't need to. (And a part of Will thinks if he just stays near Hannibal, within his sight, maybe he can behave, maybe the scream will stay quiet.)

A week ago he mentioned a desire to go pick up some new clothing. Not from Wal-Mart, though. Will doesn't want to attempt - nor does he think he could manage - to look as dapper as Hannibal, but the idea of a slightly nicer wardrobe no longer rubs him the wrong way. He'll keep some of his 'comfort clothing,' some of the flannels and plaid, but tailored pants and a few suit jackets wouldn't hurt him. Being influenced by Hannibal in this way doesn't offend him because Will feels different now, changed even. He had actually been the one to seek out a new outfit the first time, anyway (but the purpose had been to attract Prey).

Although the custom shop is quaint and considerably smaller than a department store, Will feels immediately out of place. It's almost worse than at the bar, despite having Hannibal next to him, who's chatting with the ... Tailor? The associate? The owner? Will doesn't know what this finely dressed man actually  _does_. Will hovers nearby and looks down at his boots. He resists the urge to tug on Hannibal's jacket sleeve and ask to leave, but only just. His plan hadn’t included going all out and acquiring a bespoke suit (the concept of which Hannibal had explained to him), but Hannibal had graciously implored him to at least have one fine suit in his repertoire. Will had conceded, and here they are.

Unfortunately the nicest clothes Will has are the items he'd been fitted for on the day Henri was murdered. He wears the dark dress pants because they're at least a better fit for the measurements and a distinctly less stylish button-down shirt would have to do. Hannibal, sensing Will's unease, has mostly been taking the reigns in this and discussing the details with Benoit (Will finally caught his name). They've been going over swatches of fabrics for the suit, the lining, lapels, jackets, cuffs, buttons and it's all started to swirl in Will's head. Who the fuck cared? Hannibal, apparently. It's almost an hour later that Will's finally getting measured and this is also huge pain in the ass as the process seems to be never ending and far too exacting.

"Sir's wife will surely appreciate the suit, I imagine," Benoit comments in English as he scribbles down the most recently acquired measurement.

"Pardon?" Will visibly tenses.

"Your wife? I had assumed..." Benoit glances quickly at Hannibal who is allowing them some room and busying himself with looking at whatever pretentious bullshit display that happens to interest. "He has no ring, but I saw that you do. "

It's then that Will feels his stomach give a lurch. He glances down at his left hand. He's been wearing his wedding band this entire time. Why hadn't Hannibal said anything? Having worn it for nearly three years, Will hadn't even noticed, hadn't even thought about it, but surely Hannibal had. Of course Hannibal had, but he hadn't wanted to bring it up, hadn't wanted to rock the fucking boat, but...

(But. Will's made love to Hannibal while wearing such a symbolic piece of jewelry. It makes him sick to think that Hannibal had  _allowed_ such a thing. Once again, Will feels  _lesser._ His feelings  _lesser._ )

"My apologies, I did not mean to--"

"She's... not in the picture anymore," Will somehow manages to grit out. He feels nauseous and tense all over. (This can't be the scream that wants to rip free.) Benoit nods and continues on with the measurements. Will's almost vibrating with restrained emotion. He's irritated. He's been caught off guard. He had wanted to do something nice for Hannibal, but it's been stressful as all get out and now  _this?_

"Need a break." He pushes away from Benoit, stalking over to Hannibal. He can't even think of the expression he’s wearing on his face. Will resists shoving his left hand in front of Hannibal's face and waving it. He needs to not make a scene, but oh, does he fucking want to.

"Why are you such an idiot?" Will hisses out, crowding into Hannibal's space so that he can talk quietly.

(Don't make a scene.)

He wants to push him against the wall, wants to grab his fucking pretentious wool jacket collars and wrench him backward into the display case.

(Don't make a scene.)

"Why wouldn't you fucking mention my goddamn wedding ring?"

Before Hannibal even has time to respond, Will is jerking away and grabbing his jacket and storming out.

He's made a scene.

* * *

While it had taken some time to set up an appointment for a proper suit fitting, Hannibal finds himself pleased by the result. A far cry from the polite, but pretentious tailors in Baltimore, the staff in the place he had eventually chosen - a nice place in Montreal - took one look at Will and instead of immediately turning to Hannibal to speak with the man who clearly knows what he's doing, they are polite and friendly to Will. Hannibal does eventually step in after seeing that Will is immediately in over his head. After some casual conversation, a man - Benoit - is chosen to assist them. Will looks out of his depth, uncomfortable (for it had taken Hannibal some gentle urging to get Will to agree to this in the first place) but Benoit is all smiles, doing what he can to speak in English when he's in Will's vicinity but defaulting to French when he's only near Hannibal. It's an extra note of consideration Hannibal approves of.

That Will had even wanted to further his own wardrobe is still a shock to think about. It's not something Hannibal had ever expected to hear from him, particularly considering what had happened the last time Will had taken an interest in his own personal style. It doesn't escape Hannibal's notice that Will has dipped into pieces from his outfit that night but Hannibal doesn't comment on it. He hadn't commented on it when Will had awkwardly stepped downstairs that morning, uncertain and cowed, and he had no desire to make him relive his shame. While it had been wrenching at the time - having Will manipulate him into killing for him, suspecting that once again Will Graham had been manipulating his trust for his own enjoyment - he doesn't look back on the memory poorly. What had followed the morning after had smoothed down some of the jagged edges in Hannibal's memory. Perhaps Will had manipulated him, but he hadn't done so to  _ruin_ him. In this, though they have not talked at length about Henri (a name he knows only because he'd seen the write-up in the paper of a mugging gone horribly wrong) Hannibal can forgive him.

The only question is whether or not Will can forgive himself.

He's been well-behaved, more tactile, sharing Hannibal's space. At first Hannibal had been suspicious, but given the unspoken revelation that morning as Will had looked down at him, shocked at the sheer scope of his own emotions, he had quickly shelved that suspicion. He will not ask Will to voice those thoughts out loud. In that single moment, he had seen enough that he didn't need the confirmation. In the end, despite his protestations and hissed vows to the contrary, Will Graham had given him his heart after all.

He suspects that's what has led them here. Hannibal glances at Will as he converses with Benoit, the man directing Hannibal's attention to different color swatches and fabrics to make up the lining of the suit. Beside him, Will is silent, his gaze cast down near his boots, and it's only by a thin margin that Hannibal resists the urge to reach out to him. Friendly as Benoit is, he's also crowding in close, leaving very little room for Hannibal to reach out to Will properly. Still, Hannibal can read the displeased line of Will’s shoulders very well. They'll need to wrap this up soon. As well-behaved as Will has been these past few weeks - undoubtedly attempting to make up for his manipulation - he is still Will Graham and his patience has a very clear end.

It takes almost an hour in total to reach the point of the actual fitting. It likely would have taken longer, but Hannibal pulls Benoit aside just for a moment, explaining that his companion is less than comfortable in social situations and the process is taking awhile. As politely as is possible, he asks to be left the samples and swatches and vows to put something together while Will is being measured. Though Benoit briefly looks taken aback, he quickly recovers and does just that, gathering Will up and leading him off to the mirrors in order to properly take his measurements. Hannibal watches just for long enough to ensure that Will is not so withdrawn that he can't follow directions and then he turns back to the book of materials he'd been left.

Hannibal is distantly aware of conversation as he considers the fabrics in front of him, touching and testing the weight of each one. Woolen blends, some with a subtle weight, others clearly mixed with cashmere or silk. He thumbs past the tweed and twill and in the end finds himself glancing from the book to Will and back again. Navy herringbone would do well to bring out Will's eyes and the wool is double-layered and Italian in blend. Hannibal nods and silently makes note of that. Will likely cares very little, but he has a vague hope that seeing it on himself when they come back for a second fitting will likely be enough to change his mind.

Hannibal's back is turned, his fingers sliding over silken lining. He's in the middle of considering the button style when he suddenly hears familiar footsteps behind him. They're quick, agitated, and Hannibal has only a moment to turn, curious at the expression on Will's face. He tenses, recognizing the storm brewing behind Will's eyes, and one glance over at Benoit and the slightly perplexed expression on his face is all Hannibal needs to believe he understands. He's already searching for his patience, already reaching a hand out as if to set it on Will's shoulder, to calm him. He simply believes Will has been overstimulated, that his filter for dealing with people has been stretched to its limits.

So Will's sudden outburst honestly catches him off guard. Hannibal stills, startled as Will steps in so close that he definitely draws the attention of the people around him. Hannibal frowns, hardly more than a furrow of his brow, but it doesn't take long for Will to explain  _why_ Hannibal is apparently an idiot. The wedding ring is... admittedly not something Hannibal is expecting Will to bring up. He freezes, and Will has apparently said just enough to make himself livid. Before Hannibal can even question him, Will has grabbed his jacket and stormed out, leaving Hannibal carefully shielding his surprise.

He doesn't follow immediately. Instead he merely looks over at Benoit, who ambles over, looking just as startled. All it takes is a calm conversation to realize that Benoit had been attempting to make conversation to put Will at ease. Hannibal mentions the wedding ring, and it doesn't take long to get to the bottom of it. While he wishes to blame this man, Benoit looks as contrite as he should, and Hannibal merely hands the book back to him.

He wets his lips, considers for a moment, and then says, "He's grieving. You'll have to excuse him. I'll speak with him."

Before he follows Will out, he indicates what his choices are for the fabric and style, leaving Benoit to jot down the information. Hannibal simply turns and walks from the shop, quickly casting about to locate Will and he doesn't find him too far away. They'd not parked far and he's not surprised to find Will near the car, as closed down as he'd assumed he would be. This is not a conversation that Hannibal had ever expected to have.

Oh, he's noticed the ring. For the first few months the sight of it had made him physically ill. He'd always made a point to direct Will's  _right_ hand to touch him, and even now with his dislike of the reminder still on Will's hand, he eases Will's left hand over clothing whenever possible. As Will had assumed, with peace so tentative between them, and with Will's revelation felt but unsaid, he's not wished to rock the boat. That he has to now is... unfortunate.

Hannibal silently unlocks the car and steps over to the driver's side, sliding inside patiently and waiting until Will has done the same. Only when they're both safely hidden from view does he glance at Will, noting the tense line of his shoulders, the stubborn set to his jaw. Hannibal can see his rage like fissures, pouring out steam simply to avoid exploding.

"Benoit sends his apologies," Hannibal says quietly. "And his condolences." In the event it's mentioned again inside, Hannibal feels it unkind to not warn Will he'd claimed his wife had passed on.

"Would you care to explain why it matters to you that I didn't mention your ring? I had no desire to overstep my boundaries."

* * *

He doesn't want to be making a scene. But what's stronger than that feeling is Will's desire for this problem to not be cropping up  _at all_ (ignorance is bliss and that's a problem in and of itself). He's been blindsided completely. Not nearly as surprised as when the knife had torn into his belly in Hannibal's kitchen, no, but Will hadn't been expecting for a social outing to come with a revelation of this degree.

(He'd been wearing his fucking wedding ring the entire time. While it could have perhaps been passable for the first while, he can't stomach knowing it had been on his finger this past month. Not when they'd been  _closer_. Not when they had made love.)

Yes, it's just a wedding band. A symbol. Plain. Simple. Unassuming. Will hadn't even noticed it, hadn't even thought about it, but it remains a bold link to his past. A reminder of his wife, of Molly and Walter and the life he'd given up, the role he'd signed up for - a husband and stepfather (a good man) - but he'd deserted his post. Now who is he? He's essentially doing Freddie's murder husband spiel, but he can't even manage that properly.

He's breathing quickly, clenching his jaw as he stands rigidly beside the passenger door. (Because, like any child throwing a temper tantrum, the parent will inevitably come to their aid after attempting damage control.) Will can picture Hannibal being gracious and making an excuse for him. Apologies and excuses. Feels like the story of his life sometimes.

A few minutes later,  Hannibal, unflappable as ever, appears. At the sound of the car unlocking, Will climbs into the passenger side. Hannibal joins him a moment later. Will stares ahead at the dash.

At the mention of Benoit, he snorts. "I don't care about him." Condolences means Hannibal had implied that Molly had passed away. Will doesn't know what to think or feel about that.

"Explain why it matters? Are you dense?" Will shoots back, agitated that Hannibal apparently doesn't  _get it_. His hands are clenched in his lap. "I could see it being off topic at the beginning - I was far too volatile - but this  _past month_? I've moved into your room. It's  _our_ room now, Hannibal. We've had sex. I've had my dick in your mouth. I fucking l--" Will cuts himself off. He'd almost slipped.

"Why would you  _not_ bring it up? Thought you'd be ever the gentleman? Or are you simply above it all? Does it even fucking bother you, Hannibal?" He's nearly shaking with emotion. Will knows he's taking it out on his partner, that he's more upset at himself for yet another blunder, but it's easier to lash out. It always has been.

* * *

Will's distress is evident in every line of his posture. His expression his drawn, his eyes hooded not with shadow or fatigue but with a hurt Hannibal is both curious over and dislikes seeing. Rage boils under the surface because it can. Because it is an easier emotion to validate than sadness or pain. Anger is a response to unfairness, to injustice. It is often classified as a secondary emotion, covering for sadness, guilt, and more. Outside the snow is thin on the sidewalk and streets, worn down by heavy foot traffic, but the chill in the air remains. So as Hannibal glances at Will, he reaches over silently to turn the car on in order to start the heater.

He can see Will's distress, and he suspects he understands the underlying cause. This is not how Hannibal had anticipated having this conversation. Though he's remained silent on the matter for months, this isn't the first time he's thought of Will's ring. It isn't the first time he'd wondered at the intelligence of bringing it up. This  _is_ the first time he's regretted leaving that urge alone for so long, however. He frowns mildly and leans back in his seat, and when Will finally snorts and begins to answer, Hannibal allows him the time to do so. Perhaps his expression shutters at the insult but his patience remains firm. He merely allows the car to rumble under them and reaches over silently to direct the strongest heating vent in Will's direction. He'd been standing outside for far longer than Hannibal had.

He's expecting Will's crudeness. It makes it no easier to hear, but he decides against chiding him for this. Anger will only grow stronger under scrutiny; Hannibal is not  _dense_ enough to risk it. He merely listens, and while the reminder of their newfound closeness is enough to send a small prickle of phantom sensation through his skin, he doesn't make it obvious. He merely searches Will's expression in silence, looking from the slightly more styled curl of his hair down to the clothes that now look ill-fitting due to his posture. Beside him, Will shakes, undoubtedly overwhelmed by his emotions. While the ire is directed at him, Hannibal is not so blinded by emotion to miss that Will's anger is not directed at  _him_. Not truly. No, Will's anger is directed at himself for not noticing. Even as Will cuts himself off, as the words rush up against the wall Will has erected but not allowed himself to climb over, Hannibal wonders if he's angry at himself for the implication that Hannibal cares  _more_ for him. Will may not have said the words, but they are still known. He hasn't pushed, nor will he.

Yet  _that_ approach had gotten them both into this mess. Hannibal breathes out a little harshly, and he carefully checks a small flare of his own irritation at Will's implication.

"Yes, Will. It bothers me. It has since the moment I saw it on your finger back in Baltimore," he says lowly, his voice devoid of deep emotion but still firm. He's controlled, the rock to Will's raging storm, slowly eroding but not breaking, not for many years.

"It was also not my place to demand. I demand very little from you, Will. Simply your presence. To ask more of you at first would have been selfish." But Will  _is_ correct. The presence of the ring this past month has felt like a twist to the chest every time he's seen it. He takes great care in not allowing it to touch his skin when they are intimate. The few times the cold of the ring  _had_ pressed to his skin, Hannibal had quickly taken over whatever job that particular hand had been doing. He wonders how long it will be before Will realizes that. Given their luck, likely not long.

Hannibal sighs. "While I wish your focus upon  _only_ me, I am not yet a petty enough man to deny you what few comforts you have of your old life, Will. If your ring offers you comfort, I will not be so cruel as to deny you its presence. I said nothing of it, for if you  _had_ been keeping it for sentimental reasons, I didn't wish to know about it. It was easier to pretend you'd merely forgotten. While I require your presence, I have no true claim on you beyond that."

* * *

The heater is turned on, vent directed toward him. Even now, Hannibal will be caring. It pisses him off for Will can't imagine having that depth of patience. He's experienced no limit, hasn't emptied Hannibal's reserves. Hannibal gives and gives, while Will, in his customary way, snatches it up. (He sees the wendigo take shape in front of the car. The blackness of its face is dripping off like ink. It looks oily, but as it slides off, the structure of its face resembles Will and not Hannibal. Maybe he's the ravenous one, the monster--)

Will blinks rapidly and rubs at his face, Hannibal's voice is a welcome distraction from the half-wendigo, half-him hallucination. It's staring forward, with one black pupil-less eye but the other now has a blue iris - a spin on heterochromia. Spindly fingers with pointed claws come to rest on the hood of the car and scratch down the metal, but there's no sound that follows. It feels like a scene out of a horror movie, but Will doesn't feel scared exactly. Disturbed, yes, but he tries to focus on Hannibal's words despite it.

(Yes, Hannibal is correct that Will is bothered by the idea and belief that Hannibal loves him more, that his feelings are far greater and deeper than Will's own. Love isn't a competition, but he feels guilty and undeserving of such devotion.)

Told that it does, in fact, bother Hannibal, and the pieces fall into place, creating the full picture for him. Will thinks of the past month, of how intimate they've been and incidents in which Hannibal would guide his left hand specifically  _away_ as if the touch had burnt him. Will shudders in revulsion; he'd been clueless, lost in his own head, in learning and trying to make it all feel good. (Laughable now.) He doesn't want to imagine how it had felt, how Hannibal pushed through it, swallowed down the disgust all to not cause him unease.

 _‘I demand very little from you, Will…’_ The wendigo crawls on the hood, head tilted to the side in consideration as black drips from its mouth like blood.

_‘If your ring offers you comfort, I will not be so cruel to deny you its presence... It was easier to pretend...’_

The words turn in his head as the creature comes closer to the windshield by crawling. Will tears his focus from it, looking at Hannibal, caught between an increasing dread from the hallucination and the frustration mounting from their altercation. The wendigo advances, its head peering at him and it draws Will's attention back to it. It blinks and suddenly its eye - the blue one - is replaced with Henri's own terrified brown one, wide with fear. The wendigo smiles, but it's Will's smile playing on the dripping lips.

(It's not real. It's just stress, Will tells himself.)

_‘I have no true claim on you beyond that...’_

"Weren't you the god damn Chesapeake Ripper? You nearly killed us all, nearly killed  _them_ , and you can't be cruel? Did love neuter you?" Will is breathing heavily, his eyes darting between the fucked up face of the wendigo (for he’d rather see its usual impassive face) and Hannibal. The windows have began to fog.

"And you don't have a fucking claim on me? Do you honestly believe that? I'm wearing your marks. I  _chose_ you. You have me... but you just  _dealt_ with it in silence and moved my fucking hand away like I was a leper."

He turns to Hannibal, his hands grabbing at the older man's coat to shake him. "Stop treating me like I'm a flight risk. You can have expectations of me, you can want things,  _take_ even - because maybe I want you to." Will stops. The last admission having actually surprised him.

How much has he bared and shown to Hannibal? (His lows. His crazy. His vulnerability.) He'd shared about the stag. About the murder... but it hadn't been reciprocated. Hannibal had been holding his tongue about the ring for  _months._ No, they weren't husbands in any manner. Maybe they were barely a relationship.

* * *

It takes barely any time for Hannibal to understand that Will is not seeing only him in this moment. Outside snow has begun to fall, though the flakes are so small and sparse that they melt the moment they touch the sidewalk. It takes Hannibal a few moments to notice them, but Will's eyes have been darting from him to the windshield for a few seconds now. As Hannibal speaks, he watches Will curiously, seeing the way his eyes rove quickly over something outside, aware that his breathing is slowly deepening. He looks torn in that instant between fear and frustration and Hannibal merely frowns but continues, patient, attempting to ease Will's distress in whatever way he can when the man is clearly seeing things that aren't there. It hardly matters if they're not real; to Will, they are, and Hannibal resists the urge to reach out to him, to draw him back. He will, but Will is slowly building speed, riding the edges of a circling orbit and going faster and faster, and Hannibal suspects that if he touches him unbidden, Will could fly off into the distance of his own mind.

He's expecting Will to snap, to lash out, so Hannibal merely lifts his chin the moment Will drags in an audible breath and he remains quiet as Will speaks. His expression is impassive against the onslaught, yes, though one phrase -  _did love neuter you_ \- carves a furrow to his brow. Will knows the answer to that question, and is saying it simply in order to irritate him. Yet despite the obvious bait, it does work. That Will is his exception does not mean he is not dangerous. That he has allowed himself to grow soft over the last three years. Only months ago Hannibal killed a man in front of Will, and months before that, he had killed another man with Will's assistance, after sending him after Will's family while still  _locked away_. Hannibal is not  _neutered_ , is not content to sit and lap up attention while growing fat and lazy on his emotions for this man.

The irritation is clear on his face for a fraction of a second before he simply breathes through it. While he has not been made impotent by his affection for Will Graham, Will  _is_ as safe as one man can be. That he has taken this to mean what he has, is enough to make Hannibal consider acting, but this is a relatively busy street and even as the windows fog, certain actions would be made evident. Instead he allows the scope of his displeasure to be seen even as Will continues, speaking of the marks - the bite to Will's neck, the bite to his thigh, the deep gouge cut across his abdomen - and the claims they represent. He considers answering at that point, has already taken a small breath to do so when Will turns to him suddenly and grabs at his coat. Hannibal tenses, posture stiff, but allows Will the freedom to jostle him, aware that he needs to work off  _some_ of his nervous energy at least.

He can tell that Will has surprised himself though. The words ' _I want you to'_ make him stop, make his grip on Hannibal's coat remain firm but Will's jostling movements stop. He looks mildly surprised and Hannibal merely watches him in silence before reaching up to place one of his hands on one of Will's wrists. He squeezes carefully, sliding his thumb in against Will's palm and presses down enough on the meeting of tendons to relax Will's fingers without wrenching him away. There are always ways to get what he wishes without forcing the matter, and this is no different.

"The marks are a physical claim," Hannibal says finally, his voice still controlled but there is an edge to it now. Will is frustrated and Hannibal is irritated, but as always he is contained. "But no, Will. Love _hasn't_ neutered me. It has made you an exception, but do not assume that makes you exempt."

It is the only warning that Hannibal plans on giving and his tone reflects that. He lifts his free hand and again repeats what he'd done to Will's other hand, a gentle pressure to loosen Will's grip and move Will's hand from his coat. Save this hand he actually takes, studying the accursed band surrounding Will's finger for only a second before he lifts Will's hand to his lips. He doesn't kiss the ring, but he does press his lips to Will's palm. Whether it's an apology or an attempt to prove Will wrong is unknown.

"That said, you are no leper, nor did I treat you as one. Yet I believe my caution is understandable. You are not a stable man, Will. If you wish me to have expectations, to  _want_ something from you, that is easily rectified, but be aware of what that means."

Hannibal trails off for only a second and then lowers Will's hand again, looking at him curiously. "I want the ring off when we get back; to remove it now would only cause suspicion. I want you to tell me _why_ you are so bothered. What your anger is really hiding, for I cannot address it unless you are honest with me. And I want you to tell me what you see," Hannibal adds, glancing briefly to the windshield before looking back at Will. "Not your stag. You aren't afraid of it, but you are afraid of this one."

* * *

Will allows Hannibal to remove one hand from the collar, actually finding the touch comforting. Despite Hannibal's claim that he is an exception, but not exempt, an eyebrow arches imperceptibly. Will doesn't know if actually  _believes_ that. He has more evidence, in his opinion, that points to the contrary. But he's not going to argue semantics, not right now. He's not thinking clearly, but how could he be? The fucking wendigo is looking at him, it's face more  _him_ save for the panicked brown eye of Henri. (Wrong. All wrong. Wrong.)

His other hand is detached from Hannibal's coat, but the older man does something Will isn't expecting, he places a chaste kiss on the palm of it. It's nice, but Will clenches his jaw, frowning at the next statements:  _‘You are not a stable man... Be aware of what that means...'_ He doesn't want this contrast between them, this divide, where he has expectations but Hannibal doesn't. But Will remembers all too well when Alana had asked him if he felt unstable (and what that had meant for them - remaining as friends only)... Would Hannibal and he have the same fate eventually? Would he become too much? Exhaust and stretch Hannibal too thin...

He's given an expectation now: Hannibal demanding the ring comes off when they arrive home. Will glances down at it. The wendigo's claws scrape at the windshield, but once again no sound accompanies the action. It does get Will jumping in his seat and looking back at it. The usual blackness of its face has almost dripped completely off, giving way to what appears to be carved marble, like a statue. But still, one eye is black, the other all too human, all too Henri.

(He had done nothing when Henri had looked at him in fear...)

He rubs at his face with his hand, hoping, in vain, for the creature to be gone. (He needs it to be gone. He needs to be stable. He needs to--) He needs to open his mouth and explain why he's really bothered. He also needs to spill on what he's seeing... Apparently he's been obvious (not that he had been really trying.) This is what Hannibal expects.

"I'm upset at myself for not noticing," Will tries, voice tight as he fidgets, half-distracted, blinking quickly. "I don't want to be bad at this... You deserve more, deserve better." Somehow it's easier to admit when more of his attention is split and he's stressed.

He looks between the wendigo and Hannibal, unsure if he wants to talk about it. No, he's not unsure. He  _doesn't_ want to talk about it. It will just prove Hannibal's point. ( _Do you feel unstable? You are not a stable man_...) The black of the antlers begins to drip off too, but the consistency looks more viscous, like tar.

"It's wrong," he mumbles. Will’s eyes squint at the image, at the stark contrast of the now carved out white face (more his face, than the former ambiguous one).  It's not supposed to be him. He's not the monster.

"The wendigo. Its face. It's mine now. But one eye..." Will's hand comes to his own face and the wendigo mimics it. When the next impulse arises, it doesn't seem so strange to scratch at his eye - at Henri's eye. Maybe he can claw it out.

* * *

That Will jumps at nothing is not a good sign, though Hannibal strives to reserve his judgement, watching curiously as Will takes his hand back in order to rub at his face. The stress is clear upon his face. Bitterness and anguish and guilt all war for top spot and Hannibal watches, disconnected but not detached, simply waiting for Will to respond or for Will to act. He is familiar with the crease upon Will's brow, with the deeply etched mark of his stress nearing a breaking point. He's not boiled over yet, but he is nearing it. And if he's also experiencing hallucinations at the same time, Hannibal wonders at the intelligence of allowing Will to remain around people. To subject himself to the dangers of controlling whatever outburst is bubbling forth is nothing; it is not the first time Hannibal has taken Will's rage and channeled it into something else. He's practiced at it, but to allow Will to cause a scene in broad daylight is a risk. For now he decides to reserve judgment. While he's irritated at Will's comment (the thought of allowing himself to be domesticated, to be  _neutered_...) he allows that irritation to fade.

He has had months to ready himself for his displeasure in this scenario. Will is the one who requires grounding.

Thankfully Will is apparently just desperate enough to be forthcoming. His voice is tight, he's shifting, fidgeting, clearly in distress, but at least he's speaking. It's nothing Hannibal hadn't suspected but hearing it confirmed goes a long way in calming his own disappointment over the ring's presence. Will hadn't noticed. It's not a bid to remember his old life, but rather familiarity he hadn't noticed. "If you didn't notice, it's because it had little significance to you," Hannibal says, and while he does try to hide it, there is a note of relief even in his tone. "I know what to expect from you, Will. But in this... you are correct. I should have mentioned it. I didn't want to risk upsetting you, yet in attempting to avoid it, I appear to have cultivated it instead." The road to Hell, and all.

And if he is responsible for Will's stress, then at the heart of it, he is also responsible for whatever hallucination exists outside of the car. He watches as Will's gaze darts towards it, then back to him, and back again. Will's reluctance is almost physical but Hannibal simply waits, expectant, and when Will speaks, Hannibal leans in just a little more to hear him better. The wendigo appearing is new; while the stag has shown up in the last few weeks, the wendigo hasn't (as far as Hannibal is aware). Perhaps this reaction to it is normal, in that case. Yet Will's claim that it's  _wrong_ is enough to get his attention. That it shares Will's face is significant, but something about the eye is also apparently wrong. Will doesn't clarify this, though. Instead, as Hannibal watches, he sees the precise moment Will's hand ceases touching his face and instead begins to dig his nails into his skin. One downward twitch of his hand is all it takes for Hannibal to suddenly shoot out his own hand and grab Will firmly around the wrist.

"Will," Hannibal says firmly, not a reprimand, merely a warning. He pulls Will's hand away from his own face forcibly and then - to forestall any attempt to do it again - Hannibal gives in, drops his attempt at passivity and reaches out with his free hand to press his fingers to Will's jaw. He firmly turns Will to face him and then moves his fingers pointedly, blocking Will's peripheral vision. It won't help if the hallucination redirects behind his eyes, or upon Hannibal's face, but it's a second that Will doesn't see the creature that apparently startles him so much.

"Will, no. I want you to keep your hands open for me. Palms up. Can you do that?" No risk of clawing at his eyes again. "Before the wendigo mirrored your face, what did its presence represent? It's here due to your stress. Due to something you negatively perceive about yourself. Look at me, or focus on my voice. Not what you see outside. What bothered you about the eye, Will?"

* * *

Hannibal is a lover, friend, doctor, parent and psychiatrist. He tries to fill all the possible roles for Will. He will bend and break for Will. He'll submit, he'll care, he'll protect, he'll kill for him. These all have been proven and demonstrated to Will Graham. Infinite patience has been at his disposal. Through his stumbles and blunders, his anger, his attempts to actually hurt and lash out, Hannibal has remained. But being unchecked, too much freedom... it's not a good thing. Henri was evidence.

Will's not an expert at relationships, but he knows that things are unequal between them. It's been this way since the beginning, but he hadn't exactly cared about it until recently. Will may dictate, but Hannibal still remains in control, still in a dominant position for he doesn't truly let Will  _in_ (the most exposed Hannibal has been to him is when Will had looked inside and when they had made love the first time...) He remembers thinking of cops at the precinct wishing their wives did more, wanting them to take care of everything, small man-children. It may be convenient to have Hannibal do such things, but it doesn't  _feel_   _good_. Doesn't feel  _right_.

But Will can't vocalize this all to Hannibal right now. He hasn't wanted to complain, to demand Hannibal be more demanding... He's never dealt well with surprises and having a stranger point out the ring had been a slap to the face, shaking up his image, for Will had thought he'd been better, been good and more fair toward Hannibal. The hallucination flaring up isn't doing him any favors, dredging up another corpse to think about. (He's been conflicted since that night. Had the actual murder been justice or had it been wrong? The only thing he knows is that manipulating Hannibal had been a grave mistake.)

Yes, he's not the most stable, but he wants Hannibal to trust him. Love isn't enough. It would never be enough to sustain them. This wasn't a fairy tale. Love without trust, love without communication? Without reciprocity? It would unravel and slip through their fingers. Even at his worst, drowning in bitterness and unsure,  _Will_ had remained. That had to count for something...

Hannibal explains away any possible significance of the ring, showing that he understands why it had remained on Will's finger for so long - that it had been an oversight because of its familiarity. He appreciates that Hannibal agrees that he ought to have spoken up about the issue; Will wants to be relieved by this all, but he can hear Alana echoing in his head, the wendigo is staring him down with Henri's eye and he's aware of how he's presenting, losing his shit in front of Hannibal, all the while he's desperately trying to be better and prove that he's dependable.

He's definitely giving mixed messages because attempting to claw out his own isn't going to accomplish much. Will's hand is, predictably, pulled away. (Who is Hannibal right now? Parent? Shrink? Caregiver?) His face is turned. Instructions are given. Will blinks rapidly, but seems to settle somewhat a moment later while his vision is impeded by Hannibal's fingers on his face. He unclenches his clammy hands, palms up, as Hannibal has asked.

"Contemptible," Will rasps out, focusing on the small scar on Hannibal's cheek. "It's contemptible." That word summed up the wendigo well (sums up Will's own feelings about himself in a few matters). He licks his lips, exhales slowly.

"At first one eye was mine, but then it became Henri's, wide and radiating fear..." He changes subjects slightly, his eyes tracking up to Hannibal's eyes.

"It's always been completely black. Its face. Eyes. Antlers. Body. Claws. But now it's been dripping off, first the face, losing its more ambiguous structure as well and taking on my own, now the antlers... It looks like carved marble underneath."

* * *

While the initial focus of this conversation had been to speak about the ring, its presence - while still enough to curl Hannibal's lip - is no longer his main priority. Will is. Hannibal is quiet and firm, encouraging in the moments following his instructions. His hand serves as a buffer for Will's hallucination and he watches closely as Will's eyes rapidly flutter, as his mind struggles to compensate for the sudden loss of empty space to his right. His hand is gentle upon Will's cheek, mindful of the scar etched into his skin and hidden behind Will's stubble, but it presses firmly enough to be felt, so that Will knows it isn't going anywhere. Hannibal simply ducks his head, doing what he can to check Will's eyes quickly - just a simple glance to guarantee that he's still present and isn't about to seize.

Will is present. As much as Will Graham is ever present in the moment. He's distressed and slowly unwinding but now he's doing so slowly, and if Hannibal hedges his bets properly and reads the signs, he believes he'll be able to find the loose thread and rewind Will back more securely than before. Of course there also exists the possibility of unraveling him completely, which is why Hannibal is in no mood to rush.

The word Will uses is one Hannibal would have and just for a second he finds himself frowning, leaning back to curiously study Will's face. It's a quick look simply to ensure Will has not adapted him by mistake, or on purpose. But no, while Will's eyes are blown with adrenaline and discomfort, he is still Will Graham. Hannibal refocuses on what Will is saying, painting the mental picture as best as he can. The name  _Henri_ throws him for a moment before he remembers the man in the parking lot.

He remembers Will, dressed finely, much the same way he is now. He remembers Will pressed up against the man's car, trapped in a kiss he had apparently hated, yet he'd merely held still and allowed Hannibal to kill the man in question. Not nearly slow enough, in Hannibal's opinion, but he  _is_ aware that he'd held the man half-strangled for some time, facing Will. It isn't a far jump to imagine that Will's empathy has kicked in, has... adapted to attempt to reconcile his actions. Henri's eye frozen in fear.

"Undoubtedly an image that holds significance to you. His eye," Hannibal says softly. He watches as Will's eyes slowly track up to his own and he merely waits, not willing to push lest he overwhelm Will as he comes back down.

Hannibal releases Will's other hand at the wrist and instead fits his hand over his open palm, stroking his fingers over the heel of Will's hand and over his palm. It's a sensation he intends to keep varying. He doesn't wish Will to spend too long in his own mind. Not right now. And as Will continues, as he describes the wendigo, Hannibal considers his own mental image of the creature. Undoubtedly it's slightly different, for his own interpretation is influenced heavily by old accounts of the wendigo legend, but he nods to show he's listening just the same. When Will explains, it doesn't take long for Hannibal to consider the possible symbolism. He has found that Will's hallucinations are rarely  _just there_.

"It has always been shrouded in shadow before. Lingering just out of sight until it is there, then. The unknown," he translates softly, and presses his nails gently to Will's palm.

"You described it to me once. A gruesome thing. Yet now it's shedding its shadow, showing your face? White marble?" Hannibal wonders. The symbolism has to have occurred to Will as well. "Do you see yourself as a monster, Will? Following what I did to that man? You've not been hallucinating him, have you? As you once did Garret Jacob Hobbs?" In this, it is better to be safe.

* * *

Hannibal's tenderness used to bother him. Will used to be offended by the idea of Hannibal seeking to calm him down, to placate him, to settle him like an upset toddler. Now, the touch is welcome. The support is welcome. The calm and stability is familiar, Hannibal's voice and comfort a balm for frazzled nerves. They've come far from the clinical touches - the initial wound care - and even the violence, the biting and choking. There can be both - there  _is_ both - tenderness and violence, layers and degrees, and it's something Will, after the fall, couldn't have believed or allowed.

But it's been months now and Will doesn't want to be alone with his distress, not anymore. He doesn't have to be either. Hannibal is here, with him, blocking out the creature (not real, not real - he knows - shouldn't that be enough to banish it?). The touch at his face, persistent at his scar, is a reminder. It grounds him. His name is Will Graham, they're in Quebec City, in the car, it's some time after 2PM...

Hannibal isn't the Ripper anymore, not really. The wendigo is Will's manifestation of that enigma, the creature lurking, something he's never liked, but something that has remained nonetheless. Murder is in the wendigo's blood, it's a monster that hungers always and undoubtedly Henri's demise coupled with a spike of stress is what has reawakened it.

Hannibal may have forgiven him for his deception, for his duplicity regarding the murder set up, but Will hasn't forgiven himself. He doesn't know how to let go of it (for disappointing Hannibal, for allowing him to think his feelings had been untrue). He also doesn't know how he feels about ending a man who was not a killer. Henri wasn't a good man, no, but neither is he. What gave him the right to sentence a man to death? He had had the urge and the means. That's all that it had taken - a desire and the ability to orchestrate it. Slaying the Red Dragon hadn't bothered him, he didn't have nightmares of Dolarhyde haunting him. But Henri... Will's unsure over the whole thing. At the time, he'd watched, rapt, and done nothing to save a life. He'd felt Henri's fear but let it slide off of him - or at least he had thought he had. (Now he's not so sure.)

Touch is paid to his hand, changing, light, a reminder that Hannibal is with him. Will takes a steadying breath before replying. He's almost holding eye contact.

"Even though I know it isn't the case, there's a part of me that wants to hold you accountable, that thinks you've sculpted me into this somehow, molded me into a monster. It's not easy... To claim my own darkness, or even my shortcomings in our relationship."

Hallucinations and the fallout of the murder should likely be more important to Will, but he hasn't forgotten what has started this all - the unmentioned ring lighting up the gap between them. Will leans into the touch at his face.

"Hannibal... Let's go home." It's not what he means to say, but it will do.

* * *

That Will wishes to blame him for the events of that evening doesn't come as a surprise to Hannibal. It has little to do with a dislike of him and a lot to do with an attempt to cope. He nods, and as Will steadies himself enough to answer - speaking of his own darkness and perceived shortcomings in their relationship - he merely files these beliefs away in the back of his mind to address. While the mention of a relationship does surprise him - for Will has rarely if ever referred to this as one - Hannibal merely acknowledges Will's concerns with a small nod, his hand still gentle upon Will's jaw and fingers still trailing over Will's open palm. It's grounding, it's acknowledgement, and it's Hannibal's attempt to blind Will to everything but him, but reality.

He is curious whether or not Will has been hallucinating Henri but if Will would rather not say, Hannibal won't push. He's stressed, still hallucinating, his combined stress of the past few weeks and the stress of being under careful scrutiny for the last hour enough to lower his defenses and make him withdraw. Hannibal understands.

The soft mention of his name comes as a surprise, however. Hannibal briefly meets Will's eyes and stills at the mere idea that the farmhouse has now become Will's home, even while so distressed. He casts a quick thought to Benoit still waiting inside, to the rest of the appointment, but then merely dismisses the idea. It's a simple matter of which he cares more for, and Benoit doesn't make the list. Hannibal nods and he allows himself to gently stroke his thumb over the swell of Will's cheek.

"All right," he says quietly, and leans in just enough to press a kiss to the center of Will's forehead, holding it just long enough to ensure it's felt. "Give me one moment. Close your eyes, please."

He doesn't want Will seeing the creature outside even as he pulls his hands away. It would be simple to return to the store; it's not far away. Yet the thought of leaving Will on his own doesn't sit well with him. Instead Hannibal simply reaches down for his phone and leans back in his seat, dialing the shop and lifting the phone to his ear. The call connects quickly and Hannibal politely asks for Benoit - in French, though he reaches down to hold one of Will's hands to ensure a connection remains.

When Benoit answers the phone, he sounds polite but a little thrown. As soon as Hannibal introduces himself, he needs to head off a hasty attempt to apologize and merely dismisses the concerns. He explains something about a sleepless night and stress in crowds and simply asks if another fitting will be needed before the final one. There's a pause, then Benoit simply tells him he's got the measurements. If anything he sounds relieved, and Hannibal thanks him, asking to be notified when the second fitting needs to be done. It takes little effort from there to finish the conversation and hang up. Then he merely pockets his phone and reaches over to turn the car on properly and alter the settings on the vents to clear up the fog within the vehicle. All the while Hannibal holds Will's hand.

"There will be another fitting in a few weeks but it will be much shorter than this one," Hannibal says simply. "It's merely to make notes. They will have the suit half-made and pin it in place to ensure it fits properly. It shouldn't be longer than ten minutes. But yes, Will. We can go home."

Home. Such an odd word given the state of the farmhouse. Given the state of the province. Hannibal muses on this as he gives Will's hand a final squeeze and then moves it over to rest against his thigh instead as his hands need to be occupied on the wheel.

"For future reference," he says as he pulls out into traffic, his voice calm, "I am satisfied with our relationship. And I don't fault you your darkness or your partial desire to blame me for it. There is truth to that. Particularly as I find your darkness beautiful. Try to think of your guilt - of Henri's eye - as Jack Crawford's influence upon you."

* * *

Before, Will would have jumped at the chance to blame Hannibal. He was the guilty one, after all. Convicted. He was the monster. The Ripper. A sociopathic cannibal. He had the skewed moral compass. Surely it had to be Hannibal's darkness leeching into Will, and nothing inherently within himself. It would have become much easier to be ignorant, to believe Hannibal had been influencing him, but those games are gone. Whenever darker desires have been brought up by Will, Hannibal has simply allowed the dialogue to take place, participated but treaded lightly.

(He's not the same monster as Hannibal, no, but Will has his own unique darkness. It may bloom in Hannibal's presence, but it's entirely his own creation.)

While Will may share much with Hannibal,  he doesn't want to delve into Henri anymore. He has pointedly not answered the question whether he's been hallucinating him like Hobbs. For another time. Hannibal doesn't miss much.

He's kissed on the forehead and he thinks that that particular show of affection reminds him of what a parent would give to their child. (Warmth. Security.) At Hannibal's instruction, he does as he's told and closes his eyes. This isn't entirely safe either, but Will remains motionless, face turned to Hannibal and his palms up while he makes out Hannibal talking to Benoit. By now, he understands more French than he lets on. His former trips to the library have helped with this as well as the addition of cable television into the living room. He understands better than he can speak (mostly due to him not actually practicing).

Once again his hand is held, a tactile reminder of reality, of him not being alone. Amidst the apology, Will thinks he makes out Hannibal mentioning poor sleep and stress. Something about meeting again. He's not too concerned. If Hannibal is with him - and with the ring being taken care of soon - Will will try again. He'll have his goddamn overpriced suit and he'll even wear it one day, standing next to Hannibal. (Another date. A real one. Their first date... Somewhere he'll likely feel like an impostor, but not alone.)

His almost daydreaming is interrupted and he nods as Hannibal explains the next fitting. (It shouldn't excite him so to think of them both dressed nicely and out on the town, so to speak. Wounds and winter have kept them cooped up, but is he seriously looking forward to attending some pompous event with Hannibal? The answer is yes.)

He keeps his eyes closed as his hand is relocated to Hannibal's thigh. Will leans over, resting his head against Hannibal's shoulder. It's not overly comfortable, but Will doesn't care.

 _‘I am satisfied with our relationship...'_ Straight forward, not very romantic, but it's nice to hear as is the statement that Hannibal finds his darkness beautiful (as long as he behaved and didn't deceive...). Jack Crawford's influence... Was that it? He's to blame someone else? Will doesn't know. He just wants to be home. To have the ring off. To forget how he fucked up. To figure out how to tell Hannibal that they need to talk about  _them_.

Will nestles his head against the fabric of the coat, eyes still tightly shut.

“[Que ferais-je sans toi?](http://what%20would%20i%20do%20without%20you/?)" He tries, hoping his French is  passable. It's a good question: what would Will do without him? Could he even survive here without Hannibal? Care and support were one thing, but he's almost completely reliant on Hannibal. (Not equals.)

* * *

Aware of Will's desire to remain close right now, Hannibal relocates Will's hand to his thigh as he speaks, practical despite his desire to ease the distress from Will's mind. Yet even as he does it, he's not expecting Will to shift at his side. Blinking, caught ever so slightly off guard, Hannibal looks down as Will settles in against his shoulder. It can't be comfortable; the divide is wider than it suddenly seems like it should be and Will's seat-belt has to be cutting in. Yet he seems perfectly content to nestle himself in closer to Hannibal's coat, resting his head against his shoulder and keeping his hand where it is. Hannibal stills only for a moment before coming to a full stop at a stop sign just for long enough to lean down and press a kiss to the top of Will's head. It's acknowledgement, if nothing else.

The softly-spoken words do come as a surprise however. Both due to their content  _and_ because of the language. Hannibal looks down at Will in mild surprise, pleasantly surprised to hear the words in a slightly thicker accent, but still correct. He hadn't been aware that Will had been learning the language. At least not as well as he's apparently started to pick it up. Still, he's not entirely certain regarding his comprehension level and so Hannibal decides to play it safer and stick with English to respond, though there is pride in his voice.

"The same that I would do without you. Hopefully neither of us need to know," he replies quietly.

He's spent so many years waiting; perhaps their relationship is not even, but the knowledge doesn't bother Hannibal as it does Will. Somewhere along the way, someone had needed to bend. Someone had needed to come close to breaking. In the end, Hannibal had decided it needed to be him.

He doesn't fault Will his simplicity, though as he looks down at Will and maps out the small furrow to his brow and the frown upon his lips, he begins to wonder if perhaps Will  _does_ fault himself. Given the scope of their relationship, how little wiggle room either of them have at present, he is not surprised that Will might feel the inequality. He had near the beginning of their co-habitation, but he'd been content to allow Hannibal to do the work, to care for him, to keep them both alive. It doesn't occur to Hannibal in that moment - or any - that Will could want something  _different_ now.

He is not a man who relinquishes control easily. It had surprised many of the Baltimore elite to learn that he had very infrequently used housekeepers in his home, preferring to handle cleaning and upkeep on his own. Hannibal is a man who enjoys what downtime he has, but left idle, he quickly grows restless, and he has a set way of doing many things. He doesn't  _enjoy_ cleaning, but he enjoys the knowledge that it's been done properly. He is not obsessive nor compulsive; he feels no anxiety when routines are not followed. He merely feels irritation; he's a perfectionist in this, and in everything. Ultimately that means that Hannibal isn't entirely  _aware_ that Will is growing unsatisfied with the inequality between them.

The ring has bothered him. Right now, Hannibal sees that as the immediate problem to take care of once they're home. It's unspoken, but it needs to be taken off at the house. It would be so simple to reach down and remove it now, but neither of them need to seek confirmation that it won't mean as much here. At the house, in their  _home_ , where the ring has caused the greatest pain is where it will be removed. Hannibal pointedly doesn't look down at it now.

Instead he allows Will to rest against him on the drive back. Whenever he's able, he moves a hand from the steering wheel to place against Will's, squeezing it, or touching his wrist, simply maintaining tactile connection. It isn't a long drive barely more than the drive to Wolf Trap so many years ago - but when the car leaves the highway and gravel begins to crunch under the tires before leading to their far-more-maintained driveway, Hannibal takes Will's hand and gives it a small squeeze.

"We're here," he says quietly, breaking the silence that had set in. "Be careful when you sit up. Your neck is likely stiff."

* * *

No, it wouldn't be the same, Will thinks. He's the liability, the weaker link of the two. He doesn't argue the point though. While Hannibal and he are both survivors, Hannibal is much more resourceful than he is. He's experienced in starting over. He's far more ruthless. Hannibal is also stable. Will has a few strikes against him in these areas. Hannibal manages their finances, the car, their identities, the house... The list goes on and on. But how does he go about asking about these things? (Worries for later.)

His eyes remain closed on the journey back. It doesn't matter that the position isn't the most comfortable because Will wants to remain close to Hannibal. Besides, he likes the scratch of the wool coat against the side of the face, the feeling the slight shift of muscles in Hannibal's arm as he turns the wheel. His hand on Hannibal's thigh isn't exactly still, fingertips slowly rubbing against the fabric of Hannibal's pants.

Before Hannibal, Will had no idea that there were different wool blends like tweed, cashmere, merino or worsted. He didn't know about thread count or weight. Now that he doesn't hesitate as often in initiating touch, Will's reached out and explored the feel of Hannibal's clothing. Some of it is due to curiosity, but mostly it's been in an effort to try and show an interest in Hannibal's tastes, his world. Will could have been more involved in the suit fitting - he knew a little, after all - but it was far too easy to feel out of place and want to fade into the background as Hannibal took care of the numerous details. (And maybe he wanted something that Hannibal would prefer on him.)

He could think of many things, his ring, Henri, the wendigo making an appearance, the next suit fitting, but Will's mind happens to wander to fishing and he lets himself slip away in his mind, distantly aware of the occasional touches Hannibal gives him.

When they arrive, at Hannibal's words, Will does right himself carefully, pulling away and unbuckling his seatbelt. He tilts his head to the side, stretching out the muscles and thankfully finding only a small amount of stiffness. Once in the entryway, they take off winter coats and line up their shoes. The house is warm and welcoming and Will doesn't hesitate to reach for his belt and begin to undo it, wanting to remove these particular dress pants as soon as possible.

Turning to look at Hannibal before leaving to the kitchen, Will asks, "Mind grabbing me some pyjamas? Feels like a lounging day. I'll meet you in the living room."

Instructions given, Will enters the kitchen and pauses, looking at the the cupboard that houses the alcohol. There's not much of a debate as he drops the belt on a chair and works off the fitted pants next. These, too, are hastily folded and added to the chair. He pours himself some whiskey and downs it. Then another for good measure. He doesn't drink as much now, but Will figures he'll give himself a break. He's in the living room unbuttoning his shirt, unsure of what he's feeling, of what's coming. He focuses on each button, growing a little antsy as he waits for Hannibal.

* * *

While Will rights himself in the vehicle, Hannibal simply focuses on turning the car off and removing his seat belt. He watches as Will carefully manipulates his neck in order to avoid it cramping or catching but Hannibal keeps his hands to himself, instead watching Will handle himself. He looks more rested, looks calmer, though there's a heaviness to his shoulders that Hannibal wishes to smooth away. They exit the car and walk to the entryway, removing their outerwear and Hannibal takes the time to lock the door behind them as he always does. He's perhaps not surprised to see Will immediately reach for his belt; those pants hold different meaning to him now and Hannibal silently vows to get him another pair that isn't as fitted but also holds no negative memories. He knows that's part of the reason Will had been so on edge.

The phrase ' _feels like a lounging day_ ' is very telling though. Hannibal glances at Will in silence for a moment, simply contemplating, and then he nods. He already knows what to do. "Of course, Will. I'll be right back," he promises as he steps off towards the stairs and makes his way up to their shared bedroom. The stairs are quiet under his feet; the cold less today so the wood doesn't protest his weight. He trails his hand idly over the carved railing but once he steps into their bedroom - large with an en-suite, the colors muted and casual and exactly as they had been upon moving in - Hannibal steps over to Will's dresser and opens it. He's not surprised to find the neat little rows of compulsion (though he had been at one time. For a man so comfortable tossing his clothes on the floor, he'd been surprised just how much effort Will took to keep his dresser organized) and it takes him only moments to find Will's favorite pair of pyjamas. They're soft, soothing, and the feel of them only confirms Hannibal's idea.

Silently he sets them on the bed and then steps to the closet. It's a simple matter to silently remove his suit jacket and his vest, hanging them up. He unbuckles his belt and slips out of his slacks, and piece by piece, Hannibal strips down. He carefully folds his tie to put away last and then steps over to his own dresser, dropping to one knee so that he can reach the bottom drawer. Within, he pulls out a pair of silk pyjama pants and a sweater, thicker than he's used to wearing. It's soft, a navy cashmere blend with enough texture to feel the changes in it. Hannibal stands and silently gets dressed, thinking back to the mildly grudging conversation he and Will had been through a few weeks ago. A compromise, of sorts. Will had tentatively suggested that if he were to dress up sometimes, it might not kill Hannibal to dress down. This is his main concession, though he wears it only because he knows the tactile sensation of the sweater seems to calm Will down. While he is perhaps not on the spectrum enough to register, he still takes comfort in varying sensation. Right now Hannibal believes he needs that.

When he returns downstairs the scent of whiskey almost makes him stop but he merely continues on, Will's pyjamas in his hands. Given that his shoes are by the door, Hannibal makes a point to step a little heavier, allowing his footsteps to be heard as he walks into the living room and glances over at Will, silently admiring the picture he makes. Hannibal watches for long enough to note how Will's hands seem unsteady upon his buttons and then he simply crosses the distance between them, sets Will's clothing down on the couch, and reaches back to carefully move his hands away from the buttons. Hannibal takes over for him, quicker than Will had been working, but still languid enough to enjoy the reveal and set the pace. Will is nervous, trembling, and Hannibal doesn't want that. He doesn't want him uncertain.

"Your clothes are on the couch," Hannibal says just before he eases Will's shirt off of his shoulders. Turning away, Hannibal takes the time to fold Will's shirt and set it aside, then simply steps to the couch (once Will has taken the clothing) and he sits back on it. "What do you need from me, Will?" Hannibal asks, believing it better to be certain.

* * *

Will's slowly winning with the buttons, but when he hears Hannibal approaching, he gets a little nervous and begins to fumble. He's distantly aware that Hannibal has, predictably, stepped louder  _for him_. Hannibal has learned this house, he knows what creaks, where to avoid and how to, if he wants, to get around without being easily heard (likely this is something Hannibal's been good at for a while given his predilection for sneaking up and killing people...). By now, Will has concluded that Hannibal purposefully makes noise so as to not startle him. It's thoughtful. Likewise, if Hannibal doesn't want to be heard, he's not. A few times Will has woken to an empty bed in the middle of the night and laid awake trying to hear what Hannibal was up to with no success. (He has yet to venture out and try to find Hannibal, not wanting to seem pushy.)

There's no judgment or hesitation from Hannibal when he comes to help finish the task of unbuttoning the shirt and then pulling it off. Will let's him and doesn't even feel that embarrassed over it. He puts on the likely unflattering cotton plaid pyjama pants and white undershirt that have been brought to him. He can't help but smile as he casts his gaze at Hannibal as he settles on the couch. It seems he won't be the only one lounging today.

It's rare to see Hannibal 'dress down' as the doctor called it (to Will it was simply more normal). It isn't the first time Hannibal has forgone his usual crisp and neat attire, but it's the first time he's done so unbidden by Will. Concessions and compromises are made between them and it gives Will hope that maybe things don't have to remain as unequal between them. Hannibal looks good without the pressed dress shirts, the stiff collars and cuffs and Will allows himself a moment to just take in and enjoy the sight (he may be ogling).

At Hannibal's question, he closes the distance between them, coming to stand in front of Hannibal, working his way in between his legs. He knows what he wants, but this is something they both need. Purposefully, he brings his left hand up to Hannibal's face and strokes his palm over a cheek.

"You're going to remove my wedding band," Will asserts as calmly as he can manage, eyes connecting with Hannibal's. "With your teeth."

The last time his fingers were in Hannibal's mouth Will had gagged him deliberately. This would be a show of trust on Hannibal's part, but Will wouldn't have it any other way. He's chosen Hannibal. It's time to acknowledge that he's no longer a married man, that the Will Graham Molly had fallen in love with wouldn't be coming back.

* * *

Hannibal is quiet but alert as Will closes the distance between them. He's expecting Will to sit himself on the couch beside him so that they can talk, but that isn't what happens. No, instead Will steps in close and it takes Hannibal only a moment to spread his legs, adjusting the position of his feet upon the floor so that Will can slip in closer like he wishes. It isn't the first time Hannibal has done it. While they've not had sex every evening, Hannibal is used to Will's presence between his legs, and there is a certain Pavlovian thrill he gets from having Will step in so close, as well as having Will so blatantly ogle him. His gaze is appreciative and while Hannibal cannot fully understand Will's fascination with seeing him in more casual attire, he can reap the rewards and use it to calm Will down. Typically Will asks him to change. In this moment, Hannibal has taken the initiative.

The touch to his cheek is pointed and Hannibal merely lifts his chin, tilting his head back to look up at Will. It would have been simple to merely move his eyes but in a way this is also penance for having maintained his silence about the ring. He had been attempting to maintain the peace, to not 'stir the pot' as Will sometimes says. That his actions had resulted in Will's distress has not gone unnoticed, so while it hasn't been strictly said, this is Will's moment to decide what he wishes.

In the end, Will's request isn't a request. It's a command, though his voice is gentle. The rush of visceral satisfaction at the thought of removing Will's ring is enough for him to draw a small breath in response, but knowing the method Will intends him to use gives him pause. Hannibal stills for only a few seconds, and then he simply nods. "Very well," he says, silently marveling that Will has met his eyes, and also well aware of what  _else_ this entails. It's trust. It is as much a test as it is a declaration.

The last time Will had slid his fingers in Hannibal's mouth, he'd been choked and held there for a few uncomfortable seconds. It had been jarring, unpleasant, and fueled by a spark of sadism in Will that Hannibal had found both infuriating and admirable. He could do the same thing now. Hannibal has pointedly avoided putting himself in the same position again, so that Will has chosen this means something. He looks up at Will for a moment and then merely tilts his head enough to slide his lips over Will's palm, pressing a kiss to it as he reaches up to carefully wrap his fingers around Will's wrist, drawing him in closer.

Hannibal sits back against the couch, drawing Will close enough that his knees hit the edge of the couch cushion, but comfortably. He doesn't rush. He merely presses soft kisses to Will's palm, down over the base of his thumb, and then at the base of every finger except the one covered by the ring. That one he leaves, pointedly, the statement clear. He wants nothing to do with it until the symbol is ruined. Even so Hannibal doesn't rush even now, taking his time. His thumb presses and strokes against the delicate skin of Will's inner-wrist, soft, perhaps not aiming to arouse, but not discouraging it either. He waits until Will's breathing is less steady, until Will's focus is  _only_ on him.

Only then does Hannibal look up at him and then back down at his finger. His grip doesn't tighten; this is trust on both their parts. Hannibal kisses the tip of Will's ring finger and then slowly parts his lips, taking it into his mouth. He moves slowly but with purpose, drawing his lips away from the metal band. Only when he's reached the base of Will's finger does he look up at him and then carefully closes his teeth around the base. There he waits, leaving himself open for Will to push. To his mutual relief and pleasure, Will doesn't, and Hannibal is given silent permission to take the band between his teeth. Though he almost immediately thinks better of it and instead presses his teeth to Will's finger. From there, he allows his teeth to scrape Will's skin gently, dragging the ring off and leaving clear sensation behind.

Only when it's at the tip of Will's finger does he take it between his teeth and pull it off, a viciously satisfied flicker registering behind his eyes. Then he simply allows it to drop into his hand and tosses it back onto the couch, uncaring. It matters little what they do with it. And with Will's finger bare, Hannibal finally moves his hand close again and presses a kiss to the slightly paler band of skin left behind.

* * *

Maybe it should be him to do it. Maybe it would mean something different if Will himself took responsibility and removed the ring. But no. He  _wants_ to allow Hannibal to do this; he wants to tell Hannibal to do this. Teeth have been a significant thing between them. Biting and bringing forth blood. Marking and scarring. It would have been simple to slide the ring off with the use of fingers - the normal and accepted way of removing any jewelry - but that wouldn't do. Not for them.

Hannibal's teeth have ripped out a man's throat. Hannibal's teeth have changed him, have left scars on his neck and inner thigh. Teeth are dangerous. More primal. They hold a great potential for savagery. It has to be his teeth - Hannibal's mouth - that are involved in this endeavor. It has to be personal, to be intimate. This is who they are now. There's no steps to take them back, to undo the closeness Will feels is there. They might not be equal, but they are close.

It's because they are close that he knows Hannibal understands this undertaking. A kiss is pressed into the palm of his hand - likely the first ever to this hand, close to his ring. Will says nothing as he's pulled closer to the couch and a mouth worships each finger save for one with kisses. Murder and the changing wendigo fade from his mind. The fiasco at the shop melts away. The stress of certain realizations of their relationship settle. It's just Hannibal's mouth kissing his fingers, Hannibal's hand holding his wrist, the occasional touch given, soft stroking. Will's focus is entirely in the present moment.

His finger is taken inside Hannibal's mouth. Will won't dictate any further. He won't be mimicking a blowjob, won't be finger fucking Hannibal's mouth or gagging him for that matter. Hannibal can go at his own pace. Blue eyes are wide and open, darting between Hannibal's eyes and the occupied mouth. Hannibal could clamp down on the actual ring and tug it off, but he opts to grip Will's finger with his teeth and the ring is instead slide down with the scrape of teeth. It may not be exactly sexual, but Will is hot and a little aroused nonetheless. It  _is_ Hannibal's mouth, after all...

Will's eyes flutter shut for a moment when he feels the familiar weight of the ring just disappear. His breathing is too quick to even hear what Hannibal  _does_ with it. It doesn't matter.

(Maybe it should. There's a small thread of guilt that is present. A voice in his head that's telling him that he  _should_ be bothered and feel bad for Molly still... but he's tired of feeling bad about such things.)

His ring finger is kissed finally and Will shudders, pulling his hand away, eyes opening. He opens his mouth. He has to think on the phrase, on the words, and once again he hopes he doesn't mangle the language too badly.

His voice is hoarse, low. "[À toi, pour toujours.](http://your%27s%20forever./)"  _Yours forever_. It's true, but it's easier to say in French. They didn't need a ring to symbolize anything, they didn't need a legal document. They were bound to each other; Will both felt and knew it. He pushes Hannibal back, urging him to lay across the couch sideways as Will climbs on top.

* * *

Hannibal feels Will's shudder viscerally. Perhaps it doesn't make it to Will's hand but he can see it in Will's eyes, can see the slight tremble in his jaw that indicates he's felt it, and when Will pulls his hand away, Hannibal merely looks up at him mildly, silent. His eyes move from Will's down to his left hand now devoid of the ring he'd worn for so long. Part of him used to wish it would have washed away in the sea, used to wish that the Atlantic would have scoured them both clean of their old lives, but this somehow feels more fitting. There will always be reminders of the past. Hannibal's rife with scars given to him by people aside from Will. Perhaps in a way he can attribute them to Will, for he doubts there is a single scar on his body in the last six years that hasn't been gifted to him by Will Graham or by proxy.

That Will had wanted  _him_ to remove the ring says it all, and as Hannibal looks up at Will and watches something flicker behind his eyes, he merely sits back against the couch and waits. When Will speaks, his voice is soft and hoarse, his accent thick, but the words... oh, Hannibal understands the words. He feels them like a hand around his throat, squeezing with emotion. He feels them like a physical blow and the soft hitch to his breathing may as well be a grunt for how obvious it is in the silence.

Residual tension drains from his shoulders at once. He looks up at Will with a furrow to his brow, almost reverent, and wets his lips. Then he nods. For that moment, Hannibal doesn't trust his voice. He  _knows_ many things that Will has left unsaid. This is another one to add to the list, save he has verbal confirmation now. He's silent as Will's hands settle on his shoulders and he doesn't resist Will's push. It's firm enough to get the point across and Hannibal goes willingly.

He lays back against the couch, but sweeps a hand back along the cushion before he does. The soft metallic sound of the ring hitting the floor is muffled almost immediately by a rug it bounces into and Hannibal pays it no more thought. He merely reaches up to brace Will's side as Will climbs up onto the couch with him. Hannibal allows him, a softer fondness in his eyes as he takes one of the cushions on the couch and carefully presses it against the arm so that he has something to rest back against. He makes no move to hurry Will's climb, instead laying back against the softer cushions as his hand slides up Will's side, over his white undershirt and up his chest to stop just around Will's jaw. Hannibal cups it for only a moment and then swallows.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says quietly, a quick warning, before he props himself up with one elbow and curls his fingers behind Will's nape, drawing him down to do just that.

Hannibal kisses Will softly, barely a brush of lips at first. He's gentle, chaste, simply leading Will down to rest against his chest through slow, soft kisses that settle heavily within his chest. His fingers curl in Will's hair and he breathes him in, breathes in this beautiful, broken man whom he'd given everything up for. A sentiment that is now mutual. Aware that Will needs both hands to stay upright, Hannibal still eases Will down to lay against his chest and takes Will's left hand in his own, pressing his thumb to the bare skin and the pink scrape marks left behind by his teeth. He does nothing but hold Will's hand like that as he kisses him, coaxing his mouth open with gentle licks and nips, and when Hannibal breaks the kiss, it's only to press his forehead to Will's, his pulse quicker.

"And I, you, Will."

* * *

Hannibal speaks in languages Will cannot understand, murmuring what must be assurances, whispering of sentiments. Less so now than before, though. Will can handle hearing more, hearing the truth, but it's still sometimes nice to experience the vocal caress of another language. He knows for a fact that in addition to French Hannibal can speak Japanese, Italian, Lithuanian. Will knows his French has an accent, a product of being raised in Louisiana, but he must get the phrase right for Hannibal's breath shudders. It's telling. Also telling, is that Hannibal doesn't reply to it, simply nodding. Before he might have felt a petty slide of victory at such a thing - of causing Hannibal to be speechless - but not now.

Hannibal takes the hint and lays himself sideways across the couch. Will is steadied as he climbs on top. Thankfully the couch is large enough that it can accommodate two men effectively cuddling on it. While remaining close on the couch isn't a new entity, this position  _is_. Normally it's them shoulder to shoulder, or Will resting his head in Hannibal's lap. This is a step up. Unlike the bed, Will can't simply roll away to create some space if he wants it. Nonetheless, he settles on top of Hannibal, very few layers between them.

He's been kissed before by Hannibal, many times, really. In the beginning it used to be rough and rushed, teeth sharp and tongues greedy. Then there was a period of time with careful interactions, of measured passion and Will being the one to end them by pulling away. And now they have moved into intimacy - into honesty - and their kissing reflects this, it encompassed a greater depth and range of emotions - no limits. Tenderness is allowed, taking one’s time is allowed and even though the more frenzied kissing is easier to take, Will wants it all.

Still, when Hannibal makes his intention known with the simple definitive statement of ' _I'm going to kiss you_ ' Will's pulse picks up. This man  _still_ makes his heart skip a beat, still kisses him with a single minded focus that has Will dizzy. His hands fist into the soft sweater and Will is pliant and receptive. He lets Hannibal dictate the pace, let's him take the lead and Will thinks, despite his better judgement, he's falling even more in love. (What a daunting thought...) His left hand is taken, another faint but burning touch to his now free ring finger. Will moans, eyelids struggling between the urge to want to see Hannibal and the urge to close because it almost seems like too much.

The kiss does come to an end, Will warm and pleased, more than a little aroused, but still so goddamn touched that Hannibal has decided to dress down of his own volition.

His lips are wet, eyes wide as he whispers his curse,  _"Tabarnak,"_  a small grin playing on his face as he ducks his head into Hannibal's chest. Earlier, Hannibal had to explain  _sacres_ , the French Canadian phenomena of profanity consisting of words and expressions directly related to Catholicism like tabernacle, host, sacrament, Christ and the like. It had amused Will knowing that he could now swear and not have it technically be vulgar.

This is the first time that he's said it to Hannibal, though. He's not quite as overwhelmed now, hoping to employ humor to calm things down a little more. He rubs his cheek against the cashmere sweater, his one hand still moving his fingertips against the soft fabric.

"I like seeing you like this, less prim and proper, less armor... Less fucking buttons too," Will mumbles, although not unkindly. So much for not being vulgar.

* * *

It's a heady feeling to be able to calm Will down so easily. Once, he'd struggled to maintain Will's focus, had struggled to rein him in and keep him from shaking apart. Now his hands are sure and he kisses Will with confidence and surety, listening to the soft sounds, the soft, near-musical moans as he gently parts Will's lips and kisses him deeply. He takes his time, bearing Will's weight with ease, and marvels that he can now do this. That he has finally reached a point where Will allows this. It's been a long time in coming and while there are undoubtedly hiccups in this new relationship, inequalities that will need to be brought up someday, this moment is not the time. Instead Hannibal merely kisses Will until his lips are wet and swollen and until he can feel Will's cock pressing against his hip. He's not unaffected himself, but neither of them are rushed right now.

Hannibal glances to the side, looking at where he's connected their hands, and he allows himself the pleasure of admiring the way Will's hand looks without the ring. It's like the last remaining stitch pulling free, and it leaves Will finally looking like  _Will_. Free and unburdened by a bargain family he'd found pre-made and too full of familiarity with each other to ever have room for him. In a way Hannibal supposes it had to have been interesting, a social experiment. Will having what he'd wanted but being aware that nothing would ever be real. So he'd put on his person suit, he'd pretended to his new doting wife that her husband was unburdened, that his mind never wandered to the man he'd left locked away for three years, that whenever he kissed her, it was  _her_ he saw and not someone else. One day, perhaps, when the open sores are not so open, Hannibal will ask Will more. Today is also not that day.

Instead he looks back at Will, admiring the flush to his cheeks and how red his lips are. His eyes are blown black, the thin blue iris like the intense flame lit atop an oil spill, forever raging and burning. Hannibal reaches up with his free hand to cup Will's cheek, stroking his thumb over Will's jaw delicately. He's breathing a little heavier, his heart quicker in his chest, and Hannibal silently delights in the sight of Will rising and falling with each breath. It's symbolic in a sense. Yet before he can muse on how much, the soft curse falls from Will's lips and both of Hannibal's eyebrows lift. The reprimand is on his lips but just as he draws breath, he recalls the conversation that he and Will had shared over a week ago. It had seemed innocuous at the time, but now, hearing that phrase, Hannibal cannot help a small, rueful smile as he slides his fingers back enough to gently give Will's hair a tug.

"Impudent boy," Hannibal says, sounding far too fond to be properly chastising.

He watches as Will settles down, as he tucks his head down against Hannibal's chest and soft cashmere he'd put on for exactly this purpose. Reaching over, reluctantly abandoning his hold on Will's hand (though he does move it to his chest with Will's other hand so that Will can still touch him with both) Hannibal wraps a steadying arm around him, his hand broad and warm on the small of Will's back, splayed out possessively.

And then, of course, Will's mouth gets away from him. It's enough to startle a soft breath of a laugh out of him, proof that Will's attempt at humor had assisted in lightening the mood. Hannibal looks down at him, silently admiring, and strokes his fingers back through Will's hair in a blatantly affectionate gesture.

"You're incapable of helping yourself. Incorrigible. I ought to wash your mouth out." He doesn't, and he won't. Instead he merely shifts back on the couch until he's comfortable and brings Will with him, in no rush for intimacy. In truth, while hard, Hannibal has no immediate desire to take care of it. Simply seeing Will like this  _without_ the ring is intoxicating. And with Will's clinginess in the car, Hannibal merely wishes to observe him. While he enjoys the sight of Will in duress even now, he doesn't enjoy unhappiness  _that_ severe.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter is a great kisser. Not that Will has a lot of experience in kissing a large number of people and not that he wants to jump on the chance to think badly on Molly, it's just a realization he's gradually formed. Hannibal hadn't lied in the shower - he is an attentive lover. He masterfully undoes Will, his mouth slow, his actions bordering on languid but picking up when needed. Will never grows bored, the varying pace and slide of a tongue or grazing of teeth keeping him present and satisfied.

There is much they need to talk about. There is much Will needs to think about too (and then likely talk about). The passage of time has eased many once important issues, dulled their edges, but Will knows he needs to likely process his feelings about his deserted family and now abandoned ring. It wouldn't be a pleasant conversation; it would require Hannibal putting on his impartial psychiatrist persona, but Will knows it would be beneficial. As much as he knows the ring had to come off, a clear sign given to the both of them, there's feelings of guilt (hadn't he told Molly he'd be back?) But not now, now when he's snug against Hannibal who is casual and wearing soft clothing that Will enjoys the look of and the feel.

He's religious profanity brings a rare gift of a smile lighting up Hannibal's face. Will feels stupidly good about being the cause of it. Hannibal doesn't spend his time doing the opposite - scowling - but a genuine smile is harder to see often. The fact that Will has elicited the particular response pleases him. He can't even be fake bothered by the 'impudent boy' comment. This isn't the first time he's been called that and Will doubts it will be the last time.

Instead, his hand is let go as Hannibal's arm comes to wrap around his back. Secure. Safe. Another gift - a small laugh - is given. Will mm's his contentment, nuzzling Hannibal's broad chest. (He used to be bothered by the lack of curves and softness, lack of familiar breasts, but now Hannibal and Hannibal's body simply feel  _right_.) Will hadn't even realized he'd legitimately sworn again. The word 'language' isn't tutted at him at least and he has to chuckle at being called incorrigible (such a Hannibal word). And then the playfulness takes a slight detour as Hannibal comments on washing his mouth out...

"I can think of something better to do with my mouth," Will replies lowly.

It's true, he can't help himself. He slithers down lower on the body beneath him, Hannibal loosening his grip. Will could have sucked on his neck, bit his shoulder. He could have licked and pinched a nipple between his teeth. But Will is going to push himself. He's going to go further. He's going to use his mouth on Hannibal's cock. Through dark colored lounging pants, a noticeable bulge is present. He rubs his cheek against it - against hardness wrapped in silk - and this is the closest his mouth has been to Hannibal's dick. Will's eyes flick upward to catch Hannibal's own. He's not scared, but excited.

"Tell me you want me to. Tell me you want to feel my mouth suck you off."

* * *

The comment is meant to be cheeky, to ever so slightly nudge the boundaries, to edge into flirtatious territory without crossing too far over. While it's never been indicated, Hannibal merely knows that Will isn't yet ready to do more than they have done. While advancements in this relationship they've been building seem to stagnate and then progress only after a more violent or emotionally charged event, he's still not expecting Will to do more with the comment than smile over it, or curse back at him. While the moment at the shop had been tense, Hannibal feels better. Will, he suspects, also feels better if the soft kissing and noticeable arousal he can feel is any indication. But Hannibal expects nothing save for a grunt of dismissal or - if Will is feeling particularly comfortable against the fabric he enjoys so much - a pinch to a nipple or a gentle nip to his throat.

He can tell that his assumptions have taken a detour when Will pauses. Hannibal looks down at him, silently admiring the way Will has pressed himself so close. This isn't the man Hannibal had ever assumed he would be; while he'd been affectionate with past partners, it had been selective, aimed to manipulate, to charm. This is neither of those things. This is to comfort and soothe, and not just for Will. The weight against his chest is a solid reminder that Will is here, with him. His scent - while still tinged with his earlier stress - is now also enhanced with arousal. This is as much for him as it is for Will.

So Hannibal is simply curious as Will makes his comment, one eyebrow lifting. Will's tone is low, edging on seductive, and Hannibal finds himself relaxing. While he's content to merely hold this man, or to draw him into another kiss, he can't help his fascination with Will's impulses. Once wild and unpredictable and unpleasant, they have since settled. He's still wild and unpredictable, but often times his whims now are more relaxing, more pleasant, though his fixation with attempting to start something amorous in the kitchen is still one Hannibal continuously moves somewhere else. Watching Will slide down his body now, Hannibal reluctantly eases his grip.

"Can you now?" He prompts, expecting Will's hands to perhaps lift his shirt so that Will can reach his nipples (which he seems to have a fascination with now) but to his surprise, Will merely continues down.

It isn't until Will's hands are hot on his thighs and he's edging  _away_ from the hem of Hannibal's shirt that realization strikes hard enough that Hannibal's next breath feels pumped into his lungs with force. His breath is almost a gasp and he shifts slightly under Will's hands.

"Will," he says, half-warning, half-wary shock, but even that dies off into a low groan as Will leans in to nuzzle at the outline of his cock through his pants. The fabric is silken-soft and Hannibal feels himself harden more so quickly that it almost leaves him feeling lightheaded. Will has never so much as indicated an interest in this before.

It's clear in the slightly wide-eyed look Hannibal sends him when Will looks up to meet his eyes that this is a surprise. He watches, transfixed, as Will's cheek presses against him and at the prompt, Hannibal doesn't need to consider for even a moment. He has no qualms in fulfilling Will's desires in return.

"I want you to," he breathes, sounding stunned enough that the words are almost his own. "I want to feel your mouth. If you're... if you're certain, then yes.  _Yes_ , I want you to suck me off."

It's perhaps not the way Hannibal would have phrased it, but he's found that Will takes great pleasure in attempting to trick him into sounding crass. He has no qualms about it this time, particularly given the way his cock twitches in his pants. There's no denying his desire for this man, and the mere  _thought_ has him reaching down to very gently stroke Will's cheek.

"Would you, Will?" He adds. "Please?"

* * *

For months laying down with Hannibal, being held or even reaching out of his own free will -  it wouldn't have been thought of or done. Back then, most physical comfort or touch was accompanied with resignation from Will. He'd been bitter and volatile, pushing Hannibal away, but wanting him later during moments of weakness. He'd been exacting and demanding, difficult to predict and impossible to please. Will still regrets how he treated Hannibal, but there's nothing to be done but be better going forward, be better  _now_.

So, Will's developed into a more affectionate version of himself than he'd been in previous relationships. He initiates touch and sex, he kisses and let's himself find comfort in Hannibal. It doesn't always go smoothly, admittedly he has a little game that he's trying to win at and it involves doing non-culinary activities in the kitchen (thus far, Hannibal has been rather obstinate). It's a bit of a honeymoon stage if he were to be honest with himself; their newly found sexual and emotional intimacy is invigorating to Will. Hannibal, too, has become a home.

While surprising Hannibal used to cruelly thrill him, it doesn't hold the same sick satisfaction like it used to. Now, when it happens it's just a small pleasant observation that Will, usually, keeps to himself. There's no reason to try and one up Hannibal, there's no longer the petty need to knock Hannibal down so Will can get up or get ahead. (Yes, they're closer, equals in new ways, but not others...)

He hasn't given any indication that a blowjob would be something he'd ever be willing to do, but it's been in the back of Will's mind since Hannibal gifted him with one. How could it not be? Weren't they all about reciprocity? If he could touch it, if he could push Hannibal's foreskin down and jerk him off until come spilled over and onto his fingers, surely Will could do this, could use his mouth. How difficult could it be? If Hannibal could do it, he  _would_ figure it out too.

Will is expecting something awkwardly stated, Hannibal agreeing but in his own terms (truthfully, his phrasing can be pretty endearing). He's not actually expecting to hear anything close to ' _yes, I want you to suck me off_ ' from Hannibal's own mouth. Will visibly shudders from it. It sounds delightfully perverse and Will caresses the line of Hannibal's arousal with his cheek in appreciation. God, this man...

"Yeah, baby," Will murmurs.

He's also come to terms with this pet name. Logically it shouldn't fit, shouldn't stick, but it has preserved and Hannibal has said nothing of it, so Will assumes it's fine. A reassuring touch, a fucking ‘ _please’_ is also given and Will knows he's is going through with this.  His hands push the hem of the sweater up a few inches and reveal a tied drawstring. It may come across as corny, but he'll try anyway. He edges toward the the tied bow and takes one of the ends into his mouth and pulls at it. Thankfully, it comes undone and Will actually exhales a sigh of relief through his nostrils.  He's a little nervous now and decides to simply use his hand to complete the task in a hurry, untying the remaining strings and then working the pants lower with the help of Hannibal lifting his hips off.

Hannibal's cock stands hard and expectant. Will wets his lips and opens his mouth, considering how best to go about it (he has no idea). But he doesn't want to be babied or ask for a lesson so he reaches out and gently slides Hannibal's foreskin down before securing his hand around the base of the cock and moving his mouth down on it. He sucks  experimentally on the tip, swishing his tongue around it, feeling the heated sensitive skin before descending and taking more of Hannibal in his mouth. It's not bad, he thinks he could get the hang of it.

* * *

Hannibal knows he's done nothing but repeat Will's own words back to him, but the reaction he can see is intoxicating. Will shudders and Hannibal can feel the tremble upon his legs, at every point where Will's body touches his own. The drag of Will's cheek - rough with stubble yet still warm and a pressure he hadn't expected - makes him shiver. Hannibal's hand slides back ever so slightly to just briefly curl his fingers in Will's hair, encouraging not only the nuzzle but that soft pet name Will has taken to calling him. It's unlike anything he’s used to and while he'd missed the implications the first time he'd heard it over a month ago, there is something decidedly  _Will_ in the syllables. Were anyone else to call him  _baby_ , it would end with a knife to the throat after some time. The word on Will's lips sounds good, and Hannibal eagerly sinks into this new, unexpected dance.

He follows Will's physical cues, drawing his hand from Will's hair only when Will leans in to take the drawstring of his pants between his teeth. Hannibal watches, a mild flush to his skin as Will undoes the bow and by the time his pants are slung lower on his thighs thanks to Will's dexterous fingers and a pointed lift of Hannibal's own hips, the flush has crawled down his neck and Hannibal's breathing is no longer as steady as it normally is. He's watching Will with anticipatory awe, almost disbelieving over what he's not only seeing but  _experiencing_. He'd never believed Will would have any interest. With the wound to his jaw alone, he'd never assumed, and now Hannibal can feel his pulse beating hard in his throat as he rests back against the couch cushion. His gaze never leaves Will.

The first touch is familiar but Hannibal knows what Will is doing. The mind is often an erogenous zone of its own. Some are capable of achieving sexual pleasure simply by thinking on it hard enough, and sexual arousal between partners is generally important for the same reason. In this moment, Hannibal swears that Will is purposefully letting the moment draw out simply to see the bleed of anticipation in Hannibal's eyes, the flush to his skin, how he keeps wetting his lips. He hardens further in Will's hand and that should be telling enough. That Will is even considering this is just as effective as Will's fingers pressing into him.

So when Will's head finally lowers and Hannibal feels the soft, wet warmth encircle the very tip of his cock, there is no stopping the soft punch of breath that escapes him. His hips twitch for a moment before he catches himself and makes himself remain still, transfixed by the sight. Will's lips are pursed and softly swollen from the kiss and at this angle his cheekbones look sharp as razors. His features have always been delicate but there is a sharpness to them like this. Hannibal wets his lips.

"You look beautiful like this, Will," he breathes and there's clear honest approval in his voice as he tips his head back and focuses.

It's all he can do to remain still in that moment. Will leans down and takes a little more of his cock into his mouth and Hannibal breathes out harder through his teeth, his hand twitching and reaching back to again carefully slide through Will's hair. He doesn't push, doesn't even tangle his fingers. He merely touches and breathes out hotly.

"You feel wonderful," he says softly, and all it takes is a soft hum from Will's throat - either in pleasure or in answer - for him to gasp under his breath. He doesn't intend to do so, but his hips  _do_ twitch, seeking the wet heat and more.

* * *

There's no disgust or revulsion. It's not like it had been with Henri kissing and touching him and Will was desperate for it to end. Will may have been an impostor at the bar, wasn't actually attracted to any other males, but Hannibal? Yes, he'll kiss and touch Hannibal, he'll allow himself to be held, he'll stroke Hannibal's cock and now he'll suck him off. It's not unpleasant - just different. Oral sex isn't about the giver's enjoyment (although Hannibal seems to enjoy it quite a bit, for Will it's always just been a thing he's done for his partner). What Will  _does_ like is being called beautiful even though he may not exactly believe it. (Hannibal  _does_ , and that means something, that  _matters._ )

Hannibal's cock is hot and hard in his mouth, skin a little salty but it's all manageable. He can do this. He  _is_ doing this. He's bringing them a step closer. Will stretches his mouth open and welcomes it. He's praised - ' _you feel wonderful' -_ and Will gives a pleased hum in response (he remembers that  _he_ likes it when Hannibal does it).

And just like that the coin flips. Likely without meaning to - because Will does understand this, he can relate - Hannibal's hips lift off, hungry for more. Will gets it, he does; after all, he's done this to Hannibal, but Hannibal doesn't have a recovered memory that involves a tube being fed down his throat and gagging around it... Hannibal wasn't fed a decapitated ear of his surrogate daughter. And when Will's throat reflexively convulses around the intrusion, this is where Will's mind takes him.

He remembers sitting on his cot in his cell staring down at his bland tray with no appetite but knowing that he need to. He remembers the fog clearing away from that specific memory. He remembers the feel of the tube, Hannibal's soothing but hollow voice, a gloved hand cupping his cheek-- As traumatic as the memory had been, he'd finally been vindicated, he'd had  _proof_ of something Hannibal  _did_ to him. The recollection burns in his throat like bile.

Will pulls away from Hannibal's cock immediately after, sputtering and coughing.  He scrambles to the floor needing some space. He's on his knees, breathing harshly but manages to get out a shaky but insistent:

" _Dahlia_. Fucking Dahlia." His hand comes to his mouth, his eyes wide in horror as his fingers search--

No. He's not in his kitchen coughing up Aspirin and a severed ear into the sink. (Been there, done that.) Will pulls away his spit slick fingers and looks at them with dismay. It's never fun to lose it, especially when one was in the process of attempting to sexually please their partner. It'd been another overreaction, another display of instability. Great.

"The tube... her ear..." He tries to explain, wanting to smooth out this spectacular failure of his as quickly as possible. Although shaken up, he's more disappointed in himself for the freak out. It'd be easier to lash out at Hannibal, but Will can't live in a past of betrayals and bitterness (or he'd get lost in it).

* * *

It's not an intentional movement. It's automatic, Hannibal's mind flooded with the pleasure of the moment, with the reality facing him. He feels wet heat and suction and it's not something he'd ever expected to feel like this. Will's lips are stretched around his cock, his mouth wide, his cheeks delicately flushed, and Hannibal's breathing begins to fall apart as he descends. Will's hum is just an addition, something unexpected that feels  _good_ and Hannibal forgets himself in the moment. His hips twitch before he can catch himself, and he immediately means to hold himself back, but the damage is already done.

He's not expecting the reaction, and an apology is already on his lips as he feels Will's throat convulse near the head of his cock. It feels  _good_ , enough to punch a small sound out of him, but he's already moving his fingers, already drawing breath to apologize for not being able to hold himself still in the moment. But before he can do anything more, before he can so much as begin to get the comment out, Will's scent changes from relaxed and simple to  _fear_ and then suddenly the tight clench of the back of Will's mouth is gone. Will's mouth is gone, and Hannibal watches him jerk back with a dazed concern. He simply believes Will needs a moment to contain himself, but then he catches the look in Will's eyes - haunted, wild,  _not okay_ \- and Will's voice shatters the last of his need just like that.  _Dahlia_.

Will hasn't used the word in quite some time but Hannibal hasn't forgotten the meaning. Immediately he sits up, beginning to reach out, but then freezes. He watches as Will scrambles to the floor and while Hannibal breathes hard, his mind is no longer on himself, no longer on what Will had offered. Instead it's torn. He's torn. He sits frozen, watching as Will's fingers move to his mouth, watching as he kneels on the floor and shakes, and Hannibal remains perfectly still until he knows what to do. He doesn't know what's prompted this. He doesn't understand what he's supposed to do, but it blessedly doesn't take Will long to come back from his panic.

He's shaken. He's breathing hard, and he looks somewhat sick to his stomach. He's small, curled in upon himself on the floor and Hannibal aches to reach for him but doesn't. He remains exactly where he is, arousal forgotten, blood feeling rather cold instead, and he waits until Will finally manages to pant out an explanation. It's so simple, not something Hannibal had ever expected, but understanding dawns and with it brings a wave of discomfort. Of... shame, perhaps. He's not used to experiencing the emotion but also knows that offering an apology at this point would only be insulting. Instead he nods slowly, allowing his breathing to ease, and shifts. His knees are drawn up higher and he's sitting up on the couch, one arm bracing himself as he looks down at Will, cautious, uncertain.

"I understand," Hannibal says slowly, with the cadence of a man attempting not to startle a wild animal. It fades quickly into something stronger, purposeful, though the edge of uncertainty doesn't fade.

"What do you need from me, Will? Do you need me to leave?" It's an honest question. There's nothing but understanding in Hannibal's voice. No condemnation. "I will not move until you want me to."

* * *

This is not how Will wanted his first blowjob to go. He... he hadn't thought of himself as suffering from some lingering trauma that was just waiting to pounce on him when least expecting it. He never wanted to be a victim (although certainly many things have happened  _to him_ ). He tried to keep  _those_ horrors - the first great and undeserved betrayal - tightly locked away in a chest, a chain around it and let it sink or wash away in his stream be forgotten about. But the memory has pulled a Houdini and unlocked itself with a flourish to take a bow for them. Will tries to regulate his breathing (he remembers laying his head on Hannibal's chest and trying to match his). Deep breaths in, slow exhales out. He wipes his fingers on his pajama pants.

Was it foolish for him to think the past wasn't lurking around a corner waiting to ambush him? Frustration streaks through him. He'd been able to - as far as he can tell - move on from Molly and Walter, to not stay stuck in his anger toward Hannibal pointing Dolarhyde at them and his own guilt for abandoning them. His ring is off his fucking finger and now  _this_ decided to spring up and knock him down... Breathe in and out.

He's barely aware that Hannibal has shifted into a sitting position. Hannibal's words are calm and soothing. Will closes his eyes. Like a projector flipping through slides, he remembers: Hannibal cradling him as they plunged into the ocean. Hannibal taking care of his wounds. Hannibal handing him a glass of whiskey and saying nothing judgmental about it. He remembers Hannibal biting him because  _he_ asked for it. Hannibal bandaging his hand after he'd punched the mirror. Will remembers staring at Hannibal in the moonlight and vocalizing that he found the man beautiful. He sees the image of Hannibal stalking toward Henri and effectively saving him. He can recall his body trembling from the strain to remain on his toes as Hannibal  _still_ had him in the doorway of their home. Reaching out to the stag and petting it together. Hannibal spreading his legs in invitation and him pushing inside. He remembers their last month together. This isn't the same man who'd painstakingly framed him, attaching human remains to his fishing lures while gaslighting him.

Hannibal is not a monster. He may have a monster within him that comes out to play, but it wasn't the same. Will opens his eyes and is settled. His hands come to Hannibal's knees and he spreads them.

"Damn right you're not going to move," he states simply and shuffles closer as his hands run up half-bared thighs.

"You're to stay still. You thrust in my mouth and I'm never doing this again, Hannibal." That's all the warning he gives before his hand comes to wrap around the base of Hannibal's cock again and he moves his mouth close. This time, he licks slow stripes up to the head. He won't rush this. He'll work back up to it.

He may be on his knees, but he's the one in control.

* * *

Hannibal is tense, concerned, lingering right on the knife's edge between standing to excuse himself and laying back down so as to not appear as threatening. This is a volatile situation with Will still vulnerable from before. He'd nearly fallen apart in the city, had kept himself close to Hannibal the entire drive back. Hannibal had made it a point to dress comfortably simply to ease Will's discomfort and he'd managed. But this is a return to the car and worse. For no matter how much it's Will looking horrified and scared, this is  _Hannibal's fault_.

He is not the same man who had curiously delighted in pushing Will Graham. He is not the same man who had framed him, who had forced Abigail's ear down his throat, tricking the memories away with phototherapy to keep them from resurfacing. Apparently he hadn't done it well enough or Will's resolve is simply that strong, but it hardly matters. Will's trauma - a trauma Hannibal hadn't even realized existed - is his doing. He thinks back suddenly to one of the first times they'd been dancing around being intimate. He thinks back to the way Will had boldly shoved a finger in his mouth, then another, and finally another. He thinks back to the way Will had suddenly shoved them deep, gagging him, claiming that it wasn't a good feeling, was it? Now he understands why and Hannibal inwardly curses himself for his willingness to do Will real harm in the past and for not keeping his hips still.

When Will looks up at him, Hannibal tenses. He shifts just enough to put his feet flat on the floor, hands braced on the couch and ready to lift off the moment Will tells him to go. Much to his surprise however, it doesn't happen. No, instead Will's hands lift to his knees and Hannibal frowns, resisting the way Will spreads them only for a moment before he gives in and allows it. Will's words are half-command and half-warning and Hannibal stills, his brow furrowed, for this... isn't what he'd expected Will to do.

"Will," Hannibal says cautiously as he inches back against the couch, as if to put a little distance between them. "Will, you don't  _have_ to--"

Will's hand wraps around his cock and Hannibal's breath hitches. He'd softened a little following Will's panic but the touch is enough to refocus him. He's stunned, thrown, because he'd not expected Will to want to  _continue_ this. His hand carefully moves to a rough jaw, stroking along the skin as if by apology.

"I will keep still," he promises, and his voice - while laced with concern and perhaps an edge of guilt - is breathless. He watches, transfixed, as Will leans in again and Hannibal makes a point to keep his hips perfectly still as Will leans in and licks up his cock. His breath hitches, his hand flexes on Will's cheek, but he stays still. There's no disguising the flexing muscles in his thighs; with Will's hands there, he can clearly feel it, but he's made a promise.

"Am I-  _oh--"_ Hannibal wets his lips at the first lick to the head of his cock. "Am I allowed to touch your hair, Will? To move outside of thrusting?"

* * *

Of course he doesn't have to. That was Hannibal's go to response nearly every time Will offered or started to do something. While he appreciates the consideration, it's also aggravating. By now, it ought to be clear that Will knows he's not expected. He wants to. Was that so difficult to comprehend? Although, in this circumstance Will can understand Hannibal's hesitancy.

But Will is in no mood to be coddled. He doesn't want to give up after a setback, especially since it's been lingering in the back of his mind for some time. He's not going to let himself be limited by past traumas - at least Will is going to try hard not to be.

He believes Hannibal will remain still. If anyone could do it, could employ self-restraint in this, Hannibal could. Will trusts him. Will may be unstable, yes. He may hallucinate things. He may have an overactive imagination and an empathy disorder that's often a curse, but he'll fucking pull it together for this. So, he does. It's with his left hand, now completely bare, that he encircles Hannibal's cock, holding it at the base, holding it steady for him to experiment, to explore. He licks slowly from his hand and then up. Yes, there's anxiety still. This isn't so much about being some tease as it is for Will to build up confidence and acclimatize to this all.

The question posed to him barely registers and he looks up at Hannibal through his eyelashes. Hannibal is beautiful in his soft casual sweater and open to him - concerned and intense - and it has Will swallowing down uncomfortable emotion. He rubs his bottom lip against the tip of Hannibal's dick before speaking.

"No," he answers plainly. "I'm on my knees for you so stay still. Be good for me and show me your restraint." At that, Will pulls away from Hannibal's hand that was in his hair. His mouth parts slightly as he caresses the silky head of of the cock before him in a slow tease. He can feel Hannibal's eye staring down at him and that gaze is what he attributes being half-hard to.

After a moment, Will's mouth opens more and he takes just the head inside, sucking lazily at it. While doing so, his hand strokes upward slowly. He hopes together it will suffice. Will eventually increases the pressure, his cheeks hollowing as he pushes himself to take more of Hannibal in. It's then he has an idea. He doesn't even know how he  _feels_ about it, but that doesn't stop him from turning his head slightly and allowing Hannibal's cock to slide along his cheek and back to the scar tissue from where the Dragon stabbed him. He makes a pointed effort to press it into Hannibal's flesh, so he can feel it.

* * *

Will's positioning has not escaped Hannibal's notice. It can't. Though they have both shared intimacy and seen each other at their best and at their worst, this is not something Hannibal had ever expected Will to allow. He had never anticipated Will Graham on his knees. The sight alone makes him harder in Will's hand - his left one, Hannibal hasn't failed to notice - and he watches, near-awed, as Will's tongue traces a slow path up his cock and then moves down to do it again. He remains still, torn between concern for Will and the pleasure of having Will's attention on him so intimately. He has offered to go to his knees for Will many times, has done so on more than one occasion, but this is not a scenario where Hannibal had ever expected Will to reciprocate.

Likewise Hannibal isn't expecting the way Will considers him, his lip - slightly chapped but wet and still soft - rubbing over him before Will denies him. Hannibal's hand immediately goes still even though his next few breaths are a little harder. He's clearly struggling with this information. A twist of heat streaks through him, twisting through his insides, and Hannibal merely breathes out a small sound as Will moves his hand away from his hair. Hannibal immediately sets both hands on the couch, his palms splayed, each finger pressing down against the cushion as if he's planting himself there, rooting himself in the moment and silently reminding himself to keep his hands in place.

He wants to ask if Will is certain, wants to ask if he's  _all right_ , but he doesn't. There's a telltale determination hot behind Will's eyes and so he merely watches as Will licks at his cock, as his tongue trails over the length of him and learns the shape of him. He watches the show, gives Will the attention (the adoration) he wishes. And when Will's lips again part, Hannibal clenches his teeth tightly and fights the urge to simply close his eyes and bask in the sensation. It's been a long time, and he's never wanted it  _this_ badly before, but Will's command is a solid reminder. He isn't to move. He isn't to touch. Yet more than moving his hips, he simply wishes to stroke Will's face, to touch his hair, to feel that connection.

The heat and suction return and Hannibal tips his head back with a breathy sound before refocusing. He looks down at Will, watches the picture he makes. He looks  _good_ on his knees, his hair carefully tousled, his shoulders broad and knees spread. Hannibal can't see Will's pants but he can smell his arousal. He knows Will is hard. More than that, Will is determined. Hannibal watches closely as Will sucks, as his hand begins to move, and it's all he can do to keep still. He doesn't move beyond faint twitches of the muscles in his thighs, the only visible proof as to how badly he wants to move.

Will moves down just a little more and Hannibal watches as his cheeks hollow. The urge to stroke Will's face, to feel the line of his cheek is perhaps even stronger than the urge to rock his hips but he quells both, allowing Will's command. Yet not even Hannibal is expecting Will to shift, to take him in deeper. He breathes in sharply, but it isn't until he feels the slightly uneven press, the rougher skin on the inside of Will's cheek that he realizes what Will is  _doing_.

"Will," Hannibal gasps, and his nails dig hard into the fabric of the couch under him, then he merely clenches both hands into white-knuckled fists. That Will has chosen to let him feel his scar from the inside is nothing short of a gift and it sends arousal through him in a sharp wave. His cock throbs, but he doesn't move. Will is trusting him.

* * *

It used to be about relishing in the power he had over Hannibal - pointing out the collar and yanking on it. Telling Hannibal to not touch isn't about that. As much as Will doesn't want to admit it, there will probably always be a part of him that  _does_ want to yank on the collar and parade Hannibal around like  _his_ show dog. After all, once upon a time this man had been the Chesapeake Ripper, had been il Mostro before that. This man had been a serial killer at large, going undetected for decades, Hannibal Lecter had played them all and could have gotten away with it too. Instead, Hannibal surrendered and went to his knees for Jack Crawford. All because of him.

So, now, Will is on his knees, his right hand on Hannibal's thigh and feeling it tense occasionally. And while it would be nice to have his face or hair stroked, he wants to have Hannibal obey him in this. He wants to both see and experience the full gamut of Hannibal's restraint. It's Will pushing, but in an acceptable way. (And as much as he hopes he can continue to behave, there's that lurking shadow, a lingering itch to...)

He's accrued many scars - not all from Hannibal or Hannibal's influence - but the significant ones are. Will had told Hannibal that there would be no more marks to his face. He already wears a line of a scar along his forehead and a mostly hidden away scar from the stabbing courtesy of Dolarhyde. Mouth half stuffed with Hannibal's cock, he's blatant in pressing his healed cheek to Hannibal's dick. He hears his name gasped out, the sound of nails scratching against the seat cushions of the couch and Will hums his delight. He doesn't know if he's trying to illustrate something, or just being perverse. Does it matter? Not exactly. Maybe it's to contrast where they’ve come from (bloodied, stitched up, wary) to where they are now (soft clothes, embracing, him on his knees).

As he's received a suitable reaction, Will slides his mouth back, pulling off with an obscene sound. Will throws a glance to the end table where a box of kleenex resides and makes a gestures with his free hand for it to be retrieved for him. It takes Hannibal a few seconds to comply, but the box is handed over to Will who places it beside him on the floor.

"You can come in my mouth - I want you to - but I don't know if I'll swallow," Will explains, voice a bit hoarse. He figures it's more than fair for his first time.

With that stated, he returns to his previous endeavor. He sucks strongly and what length he doesn't fit in his mouth, Will's hand passes over it. He eventually finds a rhythm, breathing through his nostrils as his hand pumps and his mouth slides. In some ways it's easier than giving oral sex to a woman - he doesn't have to have his face pressed in so close - but it's still a bit strange to think of him giving a blowjob. Nevertheless, Will persists with enthusiasm, speeding up with the intention to bring Hannibal to climax.

* * *

For all that Will is in control, there is a startling amount of intimacy and trust in this moment. Hannibal shakes with it, though makes a point to keep his hips still, to keep his hands grounded upon the couch cushions. The urge to move his hips, to seek more of that welcome warmth is almost overwhelming but he keeps himself still, firmly planted and trusting Will to control this. Every slow movement of Will's head, every brush of his cheek and stroke of his hand is enough to tempt him into disobedience but he doesn't doubt that the warning had been real. If he moves, this is going to be the only time Will even considers performing this act. Besides, if he's allowing himself to be honest, there's a certain thrill in having his choice in the matter removed, in needing to trust Will to know what he needs in order to come.

For a man who has never done this before, Will is surprisingly adept at reading his needs. The empathy perhaps, or he's simply doing to Hannibal what he enjoys being done to himself. Through the slow, building haze of pleasure, Hannibal takes note of what Will is doing in order to test that theory at a later date, perhaps directly after this. He can scent Will's arousal still even though it had taken a noticeable hit following Hannibal's mistake. The idea of trading places with Will, of getting down onto his knees and showing his appreciation is enough to draw a soft breath from his throat that spikes into something much sharper when Will hums around him. Hannibal stays still this time, though his jaw clenches with the effort.

It takes a few seconds for him to notice Will indicating the box of tissues because of it. Slowly, breathlessly, Hannibal nods and is exceedingly careful in reaching over Will's head to take the box of kleenex and hand it to Will. Breathless, Hannibal watches as Will takes the box, but he isn't expecting what Will  _says_. His cock twitches in Will's hand and he breathes in sharply through his nose but still nods, caught at the  _idea_ of coming in Will's mouth, of Will  _wanting_ him to.

"You... you don't have to," he manages, mesmerized by how rough Will's voice sounds. He's fairly certain he's never heard a more appealing sound.

When Will moves back in, Hannibal bites his lip and tilts his head back with a low groan that feels like it comes from the center of his chest. He doesn't arch, doesn't squirm, doesn't reach out for Will's hair regardless of how badly he wants to. He merely remains as still as he can and breathes, shivering as Will's lips and tongue caress and stroke, as he sucks him down as deeply as he dares. Will's free hand moves quickly, making up for what he can't reach, and Hannibal is caught in the varying sensations. His desire to  _move_ is beyond distressing and yet Will's control makes up for it. This is something he's willing to give Will if he wishes. Especially considering Will's mouth is hot and wet around him, his tongue quick and curious, and his enthusiasm boundless.

There's no second-guessing. There's no drawing this out. Will is sucking him with a single-minded-focus and Hannibal only considers fighting it for a moment before he gives in. He lets himself feel, lets himself look down at the beautiful picture Will makes with his cheeks flushed pink and his knees braced on the floor, his hair a gentle curl falling into his eyes the way Hannibal's hair is now. The wet sounds in the air are almost obscene and yet there is something decidedly  _Will_ about that, that settles Hannibal down. He moans low and breathes hard, the trembling in his thighs increasing the longer Will goes. And when he feels that edge beginning to arrive, he can't help his rougher gasp, his awe.

"Will," Hannibal warns. "I'm close."

There is a small part of him yet that still expects Will to pull off but he doesn't. No, if anything Will seems to throw himself into those last few seconds even harder and Hannibal very nearly forgets Will's command, his breath hissing sharply between his teeth as his breathing turns erratic and labored. He grips both hands tightly in the cushions and rides on the sensation, on  _Will's_ control for a few perfect seconds and then he tenses with a choked-back sound. In Will's mouth, Hannibal's cock twitches and he comes, shooting thick and hot into Will's mouth as his lips part on a low moan. He doesn't move, doesn't close his eyes, doesn't look away. He merely watches, transfixed, as he comes and shivers at the knowledge that whether he swallows or not, Will is going to be tasting him for some time.

* * *

It's really not as bad as Will once thought giving head would be. It's a little uncomfortable, his jaw not used to the prolonged stretch, but he can deal with it. He doesn't push himself, not really. He only takes a few inches of Hannibal inside his mouth, not at risk of nearing the back of his throat, nothing that would have him gagging and thinking about Abigail's ear being forced into his stomach.

One realization that comes to him while he sucks and moves his hand in time is how much Hannibal actually tolerates. Will frequently jerks into Hannibal's mouth, greedy and seeking and often bringing out a bit of a struggle - Hannibal even gagging at times. But Hannibal never stops or chastises him, no. Hannibal accepts and encourages and as their positions are reversed, Will finds himself at a loss of what to do _about_ this information. Surely a simple 'thanks for all the great bjs' doesn't do much.

Will pushes himself, Hannibal's courteous warning spurring him on. He sucks hard, he rubs his tongue against the underside of Hannibal's cock. His hand moves up slick flesh in time with his head bobbing. It all sounds perverse. Hannibal's thighs shake with the restraint it must take to  _not_ move at all. He sounds close - close to being undone - and this thrills Will. A moment later, Hannibal moans beautifully and his cock  pulsates, flooding Will's mouth with come.

It's bitter and disgusting, really, but it's  _Hannibal_ so that helps. He's unsure if he wants to swallow, unconsciously swirling it around in his mouth in consideration. That's all it takes for Will to figure out: nope, not swallowing that shit. He grabs a clump of Kleenex and brings it to his mouth, spitting out Hannibal's come. The taste lingers. There was always next time - because yeah, Will would probably do it again. It was only fair. And now glancing back at his partner, Will does indeed like that look of awe on Hannibal's face. Will drops the bunched up kleenex to the floor and smiles a little sheepishly. There's a small part of him that feels  _accomplished_ by what he's just done, especially given his little freak out.

Will rises and helps Hannibal pull up the silk bottoms, not bothering to tie them, before he climbs back on top. He sits in his lap, straddling Hannibal and burying his head in the crook of his neck, not wanting eye contact at this moment.

"I'll get better," he states. It's a promise.

* * *

While Hannibal knows it likely wouldn't be appreciated, there is still a part of him that aches to reach down and touch Will's face. As pleasure courses through him like a particularly sharp electric shock, he wishes nothing more than to reach down and brush his hand over Will's cheek, to cradle him closer, to slide his fingers into his messy hair and enjoy the closeness in this particular moment of vulnerability. His breathing is ragged and rough even as he keeps himself perfectly still. He doesn't dare move even though the effort is nearly maddening, and he watches as Will tastes him, as his come pulses over Will's tongue and Will pauses slowly, as if considering whether or not this is something he enjoys.

Hannibal watches as Will curiously tastes but he feels no annoyance or irritation when Will pulls a small face and draws back with a delightfully wet sound and grabs a few Kleenex. Hannibal, flushed, breathing hard, his cock wet with come and saliva, allows himself a small, nearly-fond smile as he looks down at Will. There's something about his clear dislike of the taste that strikes Hannibal as wholly and entirely  _Will._ It's endearing, and his smile definitely edges into fondness when Will looks up at him with a small, sheepish smile. One glance shows a measure of pride in Will's eyes and Hannibal again aches to touch, to praise, even if it's not entirely appreciated.

Still breathing hard as relaxation settles comfortably into his bones, Hannibal merely allows Will to assist him, lifting his hips as Will pulls his pants back up, though not before taking a Kleenex to clean himself off with first. Given that Will had dropped the other to the floor, Hannibal does the same. He'll clean up later, when Will isn't so perfectly close and tempting. Hannibal tenses ever so slightly when Will rises and makes to straddle him, but he quickly relaxes after. If Will is touching him and moving to bury his face in the crook between Hannibal's neck and shoulder, it's silent permission to touch. Hannibal immediately slides his hands up over Will's back, clutching him impossibly close with more force than it likely strictly necessary.

He buries his face in Will's hair and silently breathes him in.

"Thank you, Will," Hannibal murmurs against his hair, his palms splayed wide upon Will's back, one over his shoulders and the other lower on the small of his back. Will can undoubtedly feel the pounding of his heart. He clearly knows just how affected Hannibal is by this. Holding him tightly, Hannibal allows himself the satisfaction of riding out the last few pleasurable aftershocks which almost feel better than the orgasm itself simply due to his ability to touch Will. Hannibal leans back slowly until he's resting back against the couch, Will still straddling his lap. He presses a soft kiss to Will's temple.

"That was perfect."

Yet simply kissing Will's temple isn't enough. Hannibal considers whether or not he'll be permitted to do anything else, but in the end he merely decides to give in. Wetting his lips, he reaches a hand up into Will's hair and strokes through it, then back down to gently ease Will away from the crook of his neck.

"What do you want me to do? I can return the favor if you so wish," Hannibal says quietly, though even as he speaks, he's leaning in. He catches Will's lips in a softer kiss that he almost immediately deepens, licking carefully into Will's mouth. He doesn't care that he can taste himself; all he cares about is tasting Will and feeling him close again. The distance had been difficult.

* * *

While  _he_ might be pleased, he's also observant and looking for any indication of possible disappointment from Hannibal. Will knows he hadn't done anything fancy - no deepthroating and no swallowing. But he, thankfully, feels no judgment from Hannibal. There's actually a smile directed at him - fondness? - and it's enough to get Will moving (that fucking smile  _gets_ to him, it means too much).

He's back close to Hannibal, seated on top of him and being held. Will used to worry about being too heavy for this sort of thing or if he'd come across as too needy or like a woman. And while he sometimes is still plagued by silly concerns like these, he doesn't voice them. While it's usually him coming to Hannibal and being held, Hannibal doesn't treat him different or lesser, so Will accepts the conditions. (He remembers how Hannibal had seemed to struggle with being held, with being comforted - Will can relate, but not to the same degree.) Being vulnerable with someone who has gutted you physically and emotionally will always be a risk, there's always that thread of unease present, but this is who he wants, he wants Hannibal, rationale and their fucked up past be damned.

Will sighs, pushing his chest against Hannibal and feeling the strong pounding of Hannibal's heart. He noses along Hannibal's neck, an affectionate response to Hannibal's gratitude. Will doesn't think it was anywhere near 'perfect' but he says nothing of it; there's no point in creating a fuss over it. Hannibal eventually sees fit to lean back and draw him out of hiding as it were by gently tugging on his hair. Will isn't even able to reply to the questions regarding reciprocating because Hannibal's mouth closes in.

Will doesn't resist. His hands come to grasp onto the soft cashmere sweater at Hannibal's shoulders. The kiss turns deep almost immediately and Will opens up to Hannibal, letting him freely explore and taste. Will's done this very thing before -  tasting himself in Hannibal's mouth - so it's no surprise that this is happening in this exchange now. Will makes an appreciative sound, sighing into the kiss and enjoying Hannibal's attention.

He does eventually pull away to comment, "This was for you, okay?" Sure, Will's half hard, but it's not important.

* * *

In that moment, Hannibal finds he needs the connection far more than he needs Will's answer. It's selfish, perhaps, to make Will wait for pleasure in return, but given the scope of what Will has just done for him, he feels he cannot be blamed. His fingers curl gently in Will's hair at first and then a little tighter as he draws Will in closer, tasting himself on Will's tongue as he gently licks and sucks. He feels Will's hands on his shoulders, kneading into soft cashmere, and Hannibal's arm remains locked tightly around Will's back as he holds him and they kiss. It settles something within, easing the distant ache that had set up after his inability to touch.

By the time Will draws back, Hannibal feels better, his breathing perhaps more labored and there's clear affection in his gaze. Yet he's not prepared for Will's reply.

Will has never done this before and the implication behind it doesn't escape Hannibal's notice. He's silent for a moment, his breathing still a little rough even as the look in his eyes softens. He strokes his fingers back through Will's hair and then slides them down to cup his jaw, his thumb brushing over Will's cheek. Will has never simply focused on  _his_ pleasure the way Hannibal does at times. Hannibal looks down to Will's left hand - now bare - and remembers the feeling of it wrapped around him. He swallows and slides his other hand down to take Will's, lifting it to his lips so that he can press a kiss to Will's left hand, right over the bare skin.

“...all right, Will. Thank you," Hannibal replies, his tone warmer. "Though I intend to make it up to you this evening, if you'll permit."

With that said, Hannibal leans back in and carefully catches Will's lips in another kiss. This one is softer, careful, almost achingly sweet. He leans back and draws Will with him, mindful of Will's arousal but also of his choice. Hannibal respects it, instead drawing Will down to curl up once more against him, his arms wrapped tightly around him as his eyes slide closed. Will settles against his chest, against the steadying beat of his heart, and Hannibal merely holds him.

He does make it up to Will that evening and he directs Will's left hand to touch him everywhere he'd denied him before.


	2. Collars/Kairos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kairos," he says quietly. Given this choice, it seems fitting. "The Ancient Greeks had two words for time. Chronos - meaning chronological or sequential time, and Kairos - meaning a set, defined moment of significance. The window of opportunity in which a loosed arrow would hit a target. A moment of significance that would herald a choice. Kairos will be my safeword. The period of time in which it will be of significance to stop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (￣▽￣)ノ ehehe... Maybe one day we'll write shorter chapters so we can post them sooner? Probably not. Enjoy, you filthy animals. (jk we love you)
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> A huge shout-out to [ TempestandTeacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestandTeacup/pseuds/TempestandTeacup) for the beta & assistance with French! Tysvm! ♥

Over the next week, Hannibal does damage control. He calls the boutique the next day to confirm appointment times and reassure Benoit that he hadn't made a mistake in saying what he had. While he seems flustered over the phone, it takes very little time for Hannibal to calm him again and there's a tentative appointment for two weeks down the road for a second fitting. Given that a bespoke suit generally takes over a month to properly make, Hannibal knows this is done on purpose. He doesn't say anything about it. He merely thanks Benoit for his hospitality and tells him to call when he knows for certain.

While interactions with Will are a little stilted at first following that first day, it takes very little time for them to again find their comfort around each other. Hannibal touches Will's ringless finger as often as he can, be it upon waking, with Will's head pillowed on his chest, his arm over Hannibal's torso lazily, or in the kitchen when he's instructing Will on how to properly mince shallots for a stew. There is clearly something more on Will's mind but Hannibal is loath to disturb this return to peace, and perhaps he's making it up to Will in the only way he knows how. He's giving him time to process, time to think, and when Will is ready to speak, he will. Hannibal has no doubt.

Yet as all good things do, ultimately they leave a vibrant trail for bad things to follow, noses to the earth, slavering jaws, hungry eyes. There's no true triggering factor that evening - a week after Hannibal had removed Will's ring. Before they sleep, Will sprawled half-over Hannibal's chest, Hannibal's arm around him, he merely catches a quick glimpse of the window. Outside, snow falls. It's fallen a few times these past few months, and much worse than this, and yet Hannibal still feels a small twist inside. He says nothing of it, merely burying his face in Will's hair and murmuring softly to him until Will finally goes lax against his chest. It takes Hannibal longer to sleep, but when he does, it's with his arm still loose around Will's waist.

Which is, of course, when the nightmare feels it best to creep in. It's slow and insidious, not rushed. The scene builds gradually, masking its true intent. A fine cabin in the woods, the sound of children playing, night slowly falling, and the woods completely silent. Even now, over forty years later, Hannibal still hates that he'd failed to miss what that silence had meant.

The nightmare escalates quickly after that, wrapping its way around his senses. He doesn't dream like Will. His body doesn't cake itself in sweat and he doesn't kick or cry out. His breathing merely hitches, his brow furrows, and his hold on Will becomes restless and tighter as he sees flashes. Red on white. His muscles twitch in lieu of the way Will writhes, but on him, it's blatant.

* * *

Will lets Hannibal deal with the matter of the suit and his tantrum of sorts. He still feels decently embarrassed about storming out and making a scene. It's not how someone his age _should_ behave and yet he'd been wholly unprepared to compartmentalize and deal with the shock and implications Benoit's question had evoked. But it has been dealt with by Hannibal.. Will overheard a little of the one sided phone conversation, picking up bits and pieces of Hannibal's soft French.

Of course, there's more to say, more to be said in the inciting incident and the subject matter. They may live together, there may be ample opportunities to speak, but there's no rush. At least this is what Will tells himself. There's an easy companionable silence with Hannibal, one that doesn't need to necessarily always be filled, so Will enjoys not talking.

(Or perhaps there's still a small part that is reluctant to bring up his almost forgotten family. They linger like a gnarled scar across his heart. The symbol of his marriage may have been slid off with Hannibal's teeth and discarded, but it _was_ three years of a normal and happy life he'd built with Molly and Walter. It's not so simple nor easy to come to terms with what he's exactly _choosing_ here now... A life hiding out with Hannibal Lecter, one where they would have to assume false identities and lie, one that both excited and scared him in equal measure for Will knows they're not done with violence and murder.)

But Hannibal accepts his silence and doesn't push. He's patient and even goes out of his way to make sure Will knows that the touch embargo on his left ring finger has surely been lifted. He falls asleep on Hannibal who is murmuring in another language. It could be a bedtime story or a cooking recipe, it doesn’t matter as Hannibal's voice is soothing and Will lets himself relax. For years that voice used to haunt him, insidious almost, soft and commanding at the same time, but not anymore (did the voice change, or did Will just acquire a fondness for it?).

It's usually him that is plagued by nightmares that cause him to jolt awake, his imagination delighting in a visual horror fest, but not tonight. It takes Will a moment to register that Hannibal is sleeping fitfully, arm tightening and obviously restless. Will blinks sleepily, waking up slowly, confused at what he's observing.

"Hannibal," he tries softly. When that doesn't work, he repeats the name louder and his hand comes to shake at the dreaming man's shoulder. "Hey, wake up. It's just a dream."

* * *

Nightmares do not often find Hannibal Lecter. During the earlier days of his incarceration when his system had been loaded with enough drugs to blind him to most things, they'd been more commonplace. Will had featured prominently in those days, and for many months after. By the two year mark, Hannibal had simply given up trying to stop them and had merely let the nightmares come. Yet since weaning himself off (or, rather, after crashing and shivering his way through the severe withdrawal directly after their Fall) nightmares do not visit him often. He has the occasional one that forces him awake and makes him slide away from Will on the bed at three in the morning to start on marinating meat for that evening's dinner, but ultimately Hannibal is spared the nocturnal bite of his own mind.

That is not what happens this evening. This evening, with the image of snow superimposed on the background of his mind, Hannibal revisits the cabin and watches snapshots of events he has locked away in the deepest, darkest recesses of his memory palace. Wings devoted to the containment of the memories, to chaining and bolting doors, to trick hallways, to ways to never open certain memories again. In nightmares, there's no falling for the tricks. The pathways open gladly, and he sees quick flashes of everything.

He feels the cold down into the deepest recesses of his bones, hears the laughter, feels the gnawing hunger - a feeling he'll never again allow himself to succumb to - and he hears the soft, terrified sobbing of someone much smaller and much weaker as he holds her close, holds her safe against six pairs of lingering eyes. Then someone steps in and Hannibal is left grasping, left hungry, left cold, and even in the nightmare he feels sick to his stomach at the sight of broth offered to him. The images come at him in a snapshot then. The warmth of something in his stomach, the howling wind outside, the unnatural silence of Mischa's crying, and red blood on white snow.

The scene continues, cycling back, and Hannibal is left unaware of how his hold has tightened on Will, how he's subconsciously trying to keep something so precious so close. Will's voice doesn't register, but Will's hands do. They're burning hot against the cold of his mind, and for a moment they don't belong to Will. They belong to someone much worse, and Hannibal wakes with a start, his pulse pounding and muscles already tensing to lash out before rationale settles back in. His breathing is ragged but quiet and he immediately attempts to school his features into something that isn't as visibly affected. Hannibal looks around the room quickly, noting the familiar walls, the chairs, the dressers, and Will. Yet over Will's shoulder is the uncovered window and the _snow_ and Hannibal tenses anew and simply focuses on breathing.

"I... apologize if I woke you," he says softly, and even his voice is tight as he slides his hands over and wraps his arms again around Will, pulling him in closer. Hannibal turns his head and buries his face against Will's throat for a moment, breathing in his scent and grounding himself in _this_ moment. This is real.

* * *

When Hannibal does come to, it's with the small jolt, but a telling expression. Surely, it's one that Will normally wears when Hannibal rouses him from his nightmares. To see it on Hannibal unnerves Will; it feels wrong. It's not surprising that the expression isn't allowed to linger - Hannibal sliding on a mask in front of Will, Hannibal's features softening. Will also observes Hannibal's eyes darting around the room. Taking inventory of reality? Will's done that a few dozen times at least. Something seems to spook Hannibal again as Will feels muscles underneath him clench.

"You don't need to apologize, Hannibal," Will murmurs. It's the truth. He lets himself be pulled closer, but doesn't close his eyes or allow himself to simply go lax. This is something new for them and Will is going to try his damndest to do the right thing. He's going to be alert. He needs to try and anticipate Hannibal's needs because he knows his partner sure as hell doesn't like _asking_ for things.

Even now it's tempting to wear Hannibal - God, he _wants_ to let himself slip into that calmness, into the very man who's assured him numerous times - but Will resists. Hannibal wouldn't appreciate it. It's not specifically off limits, no, but Will has the distinct feeling that more communication is needed about the topic. Likely a warning before it's ever done, possibly even permission too. No, Will has to do this on his own.

It's his own experiences that give him a road map. He rubs his head against Hannibal's own, nuzzling, an action that Will has taken to doing much more often since their 'morning after.' It used to be dogs he nuzzled, but it makes him feel connected to Hannibal in a different way. He noses along Hannibal's jaw, inhaling his scent.

"It's okay. You're okay," Will soothes. "You can tell me about it if you want - if it would help." He doesn't know exactly what Hannibal needs or wants in this moment. Sometimes it helps him to share, so Will figures he'll at least offer to listen.

* * *

Hannibal is left unaware of Will's dilemma for his own is mounting and easing in erratic spikes. In a way his nightmares becoming less frequent is a problem for it makes this moment much worse. Will's scent is grounding but Hannibal finds it difficult after waking up to fully be able to focus on it. He focuses on the warmth of Will's skin and the weight of his body, the steady, healthy beat of his heart that sends hot blood pumping through his veins. Hannibal’s hands move only as needed and he finds the remnants of the old scar on the back of Will's shoulder and presses his fingers to it, moving Will against him enough to feel the slide of the jagged scar on Will's abdomen against his own skin.

He goes silent as he focuses on tactile sensation, on trying to sweep the shadows from his mind, but the image of red on white continues to return behind closed eyes, and the snow outside the window makes him itch to close the curtains and cast the room in a more complete darkness. Distantly Hannibal registers the cold sweat on his skin, the barely-there tremble to his muscles that he immediately sets about trying to cover up, but there's no immediate hope for it. This is a wave he merely needs to ride out and that Will is witnessing it is perhaps as close to shameful as Hannibal is capable of feeling.

It isn't that he believes Will doesn't understand. Hannibal is merely angry at himself, at his own mind, at how much he is even now affected decades later. He swears he can still feel the chill on his skin and the hunger gnawing in his stomach. He wants to pull Will closer and shove him away in equal measure, but it isn't until Hannibal feels Will settle in closer and start nuzzling against him that he feels himself beginning to calm. The sensation of Will's facial hair against his skin is unique, scratching and warm. It calms the erratic beating of Hannibal's pulse fractionally, but Will's offer - that Hannibal can talk about it if he wants - picks it back up again.

The urge to tell Will he's fine rears its head and the words form on Hannibal's lips, but he drags them down. They'd be a lie and he has no desire to lie to Will. He'd promised. Bitter, frustrated with himself, but reluctant to tell Will he doesn't _want_ to talk (for that's as damning as saying the problem) Hannibal instead turns his focus on the soothing tone of Will's voice, on the tactile scratch of Will's beard.

Hannibal instead presses his lips where the skin of Will's neck and shoulder meet, so close to the bite Hannibal had gifted him so many months ago. His hands move, trailing down Will's back under the blankets, and Hannibal pulls Will closer against him and breathes out slowly, ensuring Will can hear his slightly steadier breathing as he turns his attention to Will's throat.

"Thank you," Hannibal says instead, for he _does_ appreciate that Will would let him talk. He merely has no desire to. He moves close, throwing himself carefully into different sensations, the familiar warmth and press of Will's body.

There's an uncomfortable, sick twist to his stomach even now - the remnants of the dream - but Hannibal still wonders if he can quiet it by replacing it with something else.

* * *

Will is no stranger to shame, but in this moment, there's no way he can truly _know_ what Hannibal is experiencing and feeling. Respectful. Yes. That's what Will is trying to be. Will's trying to respect Hannibal's privacy. He doesn't look into Hannibal's eyes, doesn't search Hannibal in a hope to unearth what's transpiring beneath the surface. Oh, he wants to. There's a very real urge to want to push, even in this, even while Hannibal is clearly struggling with _something._

Because Will wants to push to be closer. Will wants to push for the truth, for any possible darkness in Hannibal to be seen, for Hannibal to _allow_ Will to hold a candle to the corner of his mind and take a look around. (Because if Hannibal kept the ring a secret, what else is there below the surface of that patient and calm demeanor? What else does Hannibal keep hidden away or tempered?)

Closer. They _are_ closer. They share a bed, they share a bathroom. They shower together. They eat together. Cook together. They kiss, their hands wander over scars lovingly. All in this house. Their home. Together.

But Hannibal doesn't choose to share. Will is kept away. Instead, Hannibal's mouth presses a kiss into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, so close to the first mark left by those sharp teeth months ago... His hands roam down Will's naked back. Hannibal pulls Will physically _closer,_ but it's not what Will necessarily wants.

Still... if this is what _Hannibal_ wants, who is he to deny it? Will will give it to him. He shifts, coming to actually pull away from Hannibal to look down at him.

"You want me to take your mind off things." It's not a question. Will smiles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. It's not difficult to get in the mindset for fooling around. He _is_ attracted to the man beneath him and he _is_ interested in both feeling good and making Hannibal feel good.

Will's hands make their way to Hannibal's hair and he tugs gently as his mouth descends to Hannibal's ear to whisper lowly, "You want me to be rough or gentle, baby?" Both prospects are exciting to him and he feels a small stirring of arousal, his body waking up in more than one way.

* * *

In some ways perhaps this counts as initiating something but Hannibal doesn't think of it that way in that one moment. It's not so much a bid to distract Will as it is to distract himself, to gently encourage Will to touch, to use tactile sensations to ground him in this moment. He's done it for Will during a breakdown, constantly adjusted his hold in Will's hair to let him keep feeling it, to give him something to focus on to bring him back down. Hannibal does the same thing with the soft nuzzle against his skin, the press of facial hair to his shoulder, to his neck, and the scratch is grounding. It's not a sensation he'd encountered with anyone but Will, and it chases the chill in his bones away slowly.

He's content to remain like this until the panic eases, until he can lose himself in Will Graham and their farmhouse on the outskirts of Quebec in the middle of nowhere. Will reads into Hannibal's actions though. He's not _wrong_ , he's merely followed it to the end, whereas Hannibal has allowed himself to linger in the center of the thought. For a moment he considers protesting that there's nothing he wishes Will to take his mind off of but, again, it would be a lie. Hannibal doesn't protest. Instead he focuses on not making a small, displeased sound when Will gently eases away from him and instead turns his focus on the gentle tug to his hair. It wavers on the edge of uncertain until Will leans down again to whisper in his ear.

The question - rough or gentle - breaks through the uneasy haze over Hannibal's mind and settles easier over his senses. Hannibal feels his skin prickle in something that isn't fear or revulsion from the dream and while he's uncertain what he _wants_ at the moment (for his mind is still lingering unhelpfully and he _wants_ Will to close the curtains) this is comfortable and familiar and the pet name cuts through the haze. It, like the scrape of Will's stubble and the calluses to his hands, are entirely _Will's_. No one else has said it, no one else has allowed him the sensation and it's calming. Hannibal shivers almost imperceptibly, but his next breath is a little more audible as he draws in a deep one, holds it, and then lets it out.

"Both," Hannibal says, and while his voice is rough with sleep, there's still a warmth under it. He'll never truly wish to shove Will away even if he's uncertain, and varying between rough and gentle will help keep him guessing. "Both, please." He pulls against the slight tug to his hair and slides his own hands up to Will's shoulders, pressing his thumbs in against the dip of each shoulder blade, where Will typically keeps most of his tension. He gently massages, a nonverbal thanks, and tilts his head enough to brush a kiss just under Will's ear.

* * *

Will knows first hand that touch and physical closeness can soothe frayed nerves, although it's usually been Hannibal giving _him_ the comfort. Will may not know what exactly Hannibal had been dreaming of, may not know of the content or where it stemmed from, but he knows he'll be present for Hannibal now. He'll try. It's all he can do.

They're close, and while it's common for them to keep the sensations mixed, it's also _not_ uncommon to have a particular leaning or craving. Neither of them are mind readers, so this is where communication comes into play. They both have the capacity to flow into the rougher side of things, but they equally can be soft in their touches, too. Variance is usually what each of them prefer, being kept on edge, not knowing what to expect - it could be, at times, more arousing than the actual touch.

The answer of ' _both, please_ ' isn't a surprising one. It's entirely doable and Will gives a short nod. Rough and gentle. Two sides to a coin, two extremes that don't, in the end, actually feel _that_ different. (He knows that gentleness- a hand stroking a cheek - can be as sharp as nails scratching down skin.) Hannibal's hands coming to his shoulders and rubbing in appreciation has Will making an agreeable sound.

"I've been thinking about something for a while," he begins while his hands scratch at Hannibal's scalp lightly. Will rolls on top of Hannibal - or tries to. He's not particularly graceful as the thick comforter gets in the way. He has to fling it back before he can be entirely successful in his endeavor. With a chuckle and a muttered profanity concerning the sacrament in French, Will straddles Hannibal's hips, his knees on either side. Will's hands come to Hannibal's shoulders and he pushes himself back so he's able to sit and glance down at Hannibal. Of course Hannibal's in his goddamn silk pyjama pants while he's simply wearing boxers. Neither of them are hard, but Will's not concerned with that. He's in no rush. Hannibal is beautiful in the moonlight, his hair, longer now, like it had been when they first met, is messy and he has a slight flush to his cheeks.

"We've both knelt for each other, yeah?" Hannibal nods his agreement as he knows Will is not done. "We've skirted a line of dominance and submission in different activities, both of us having our own turns... but I want..." He pauses, his tongue slowly sliding out to lick his bottom lip. His hands run down Hannibal's chest, fingertips brushing over nipples, knowing how sensitive they are to the older man.

"I want to do it more - you submitting to me, I mean. I want to explore that dynamic with you," Will explains, his voice rough with excitement. Now he's getting a little aroused, blood rushing south at the prospect of a more clearly defined dominance over Hannibal. "If you agree to that, you'll need to pick a safeword out, though." He gazes down at Hannibal. Will's eyes are clear and bright. He waits.

* * *

It's proof of how affected he is by his own subconscious that Hannibal doesn't immediately clue into the subtle shift in Will's posture. There are signs that he's gearing himself up to something - his breathing, the fleeting touch, the brief flicker of hesitation - but he doesn't notice. Hannibal's focus is on the fingers in his hair, on sensation he can't mask as belonging to anyone but Will. So when Will speaks, the words do send a small frisson of warning through him, but Hannibal merely opens his eyes in question as Will shifts. He's not particularly graceful in his attempt to roll on top of Hannibal, but the lack of grace is enough to cut through the fog and send a warmer amusement through him. One hand moves down to Will's waist in order to steady him and Hannibal looks up at him patiently even if the act of Will levering himself _away_ isn't what he wants.

He nods when Will speaks - stating that they've both knelt for each other - for it's accurate. He says nothing, merely touching the line of Will's side. The topic forces him to focus because Will does sound serious and as shaken as Hannibal is by his nightmare, by the lingering tendrils of panic threatening to drag him back, he wishes to give Will his full attention. The problem is that he's distracted. It isn't enough to risk not paying attention, but it _does_ compromise the way he reads Will's voice and his posture. He blinks and focuses anew, rushing to catch up. They've both allowed themselves to play at dominance and submission when the moment has called for it. Hannibal had taken control that evening Will had orchestrated his murder and Will had taken his own form of control that morning he'd dropped to his knees in front of Hannibal on the couch.

Hannibal isn't certain what he's expecting. This feels different, pivotal. Kairos versus chronos, and so he narrows his focus in on Will even as hands slide down his chest with a tantalizing slowness. His breath hitches at the brush of Will's fingers to his nipples, but not even that distracts him from the way Will seems to gather himself up before he suddenly pushes ahead.

' _I want to do it more - you submitting to me...'_ is what Will says, and Hannibal goes still.

Hannibal Lecter is not a submissive man by nature. He doesn't necessarily draw comfort from orders and commands the way Will does when he's flying apart, when he needs to be restrained. Yet despite this, he finds he enjoys watching Will take control. He enjoys Will's confidence, his decisiveness, and - when the mood fits - his gentle caring. Hasn't he always been drawn to that? Hasn't he forever been attempting to cultivate a scenario like this? Their early years had been Hannibal shoving Will's hand, trying to entice him to _Become_ , to take a knife, to use his hands, to unleash his potential. Their later years had been complicated, but Will had eventually dropped his pretense, had killed, and it had been _beautiful_. Equals. They'd been equals.

They still will be, even if Hannibal agrees. He's not so prideful as to assume this means their dynamic will change. Will _knows_ that Hannibal is not submissive, and perhaps that's part of the thrill for him. Perhaps he enjoys the knowledge that Hannibal would kill anyone else who so much as dared. And perhaps it gives him the permission to allow himself to be caring, to be gentle. Hannibal also hasn't missed that Will is more inclined to be kind while being dominant.

He's silent for as long as he needs to be, but he keeps the thoughtful frown on his face so Will knows he's considering this. The scent of arousal on the air gradually increases and Hannibal glances down idly. Will really _does_ enjoy the idea, and despite mild reservations and lingering pride, that makes his decision for him. That Will _wants_ this is all the encouragement Hannibal needs. He wets his lips slowly, thoughtfully, and then looks up to meet Will's eyes again.

"Kairos," he says quietly. Given this choice, it seems fitting. "The Ancient Greeks had two words for time. Chronos - meaning chronological or sequential time, and Kairos - meaning a set, defined moment of significance. The window of opportunity in which a loosed arrow would hit a target. A moment of significance that would herald a choice. Kairos will be my safeword. The period of time in which it will be of significance to stop."

Hannibal draws in a slower, deeper breath and lets it out, then shifts his hand over and gently slides it up Will's side. "What are you expecting from me, Will? I cannot submit constantly, and you're aware of that. I have no problems with what we've been doing, and if you wish to interject more moments in, that would be acceptable. Would you still submit to me, if I told you to? Or do you wish the dynamic to change entirely?" His voice is steady, but he does allow a small edge to it.

He doesn't like the idea of losing the flexibility in roles they've found, but he needs to ask.

* * *

Hannibal's hand comes to steady him and Will's heart clenches in his chest at the show of support - it's support in more than one way. Hannibal is his life now, as stable as their house amidst the storms that have blown over them. Hannibal actually _is_ his bedrock in a way Jack could have never quite managed, enduring and resilient - a permanent fixture in the terrain of Will's life. The reassuring touch _does_ help Will gather his thoughts and deliver his request.

Will is shining a light on their fluctuating dynamics, but he's specifically looking at them in a different way. He knows he mostly calls the shots already because Hannibal has let himself be ever accommodating in most things. Hannibal defers to Will time and time again, asking for little (only his company, only for him to _stay_ ). Perhaps it's not necessarily obvious or direct submission, but it holds certain similarities. Will is looking to push this a little, to put a spin on things.

In the beginning, Hannibal had held him tightly, had bitten him, had choked him to calm him; Hannibal had acted dominant when a need arose or at Will's request. Other than that, Will has asked and instructed, so it almost seems natural to want to delve deeper into this, to move from the peaceful stream to the rapids.

It's not to make Hannibal feel small, to knock him down or see him as lesser. Will is doing this for a very specific reason. He's opened up his chest and let Hannibal take up residence in his heart, but it hasn't exactly been reciprocal in nature. It may not be a comfortable exploration - it's going to be new for him too - but he's going to reach in and exhume the secrets buried deep within Hannibal. His fingers will become like the wendigos, long, sharp and pointed, and he'll claw past layers of thickened skin (armor) and into Hannibal's vulnerability.

Their eyes meet and Will knows, like nearly everything else that has transpired between them, that he will be given this. Hannibal can't know what awaits him. Even Will's not entirely sure, but he doesn't think it will be akin to the blind leading the blind. Hannibal's safeword is elegant - kairos - it's a literary term too, Will thinks, but he's unsure. It's not terribly important. What _is_ important is that Hannibal has selected a safeword to use if ever he feels the need. (Will has a sneaking suspicion that Hannibal _assumes_ he won't ever get to that point, because Hannibal thinks of himself as unflappable and capable of handling anything Will could throw at him.)

Will reaches down and takes Hannibal's hands, interlacing their fingers. As he leans forward coming to rest his bare chest against Hannibal's, Will maneuvers Hannibal's hands above his head, pinning them there. Hannibal is permitting it, of course. They both are aware of who is stronger. He affectionately rubs his cheek against Hannibal's own.

"I don't want our overall dynamic to change," Will begins, voice soft, but clear. The topic of _him_ submitting is one they haven't precisely breached, but Will thinks it's likely to come up soon now. Tit for tat; it's only fair. "I expect you to listen to me and trust me, that you'll allow yourself to stretch for me and that you will be honest with me throughout."

It's ambiguous on purpose. Why would he show all of his cards?

"Come, Hannibal, if me submitting to you is important, tell me one of your fantasies," Will prompts as his mouth comes close to Hannibal's ear. His tongue darts out and he licks up the outer shell of Hannibal's ear. "What would I be doing? What would you ask of me?"

They may be changing over to the topic of _Hannibal_ being dominant, but right now it's _Will_ who is leading it, Will who is on top and holding Hannibal's hands above his head.

* * *

In retrospect, this feels expected. As much as Will's question has caught him off guard and shifted the sands under his feet, sandstone remains firm to stand on and Hannibal allows himself to think back. Talks of submission, of being collared flit past his mind's eye, of Will nervous and uncertain until he'd wrested his own control back and told Hannibal what he'd expected of him. This doesn't feel new; while Will is capable of submitting, he's also capable of the opposite. Hannibal wonders for a moment if this had been prompted by what had transpired after he'd taken Will's ring off, when Will had gagged while taking Hannibal's cock into his mouth, and when Will had told him to stay still. It's likely; to date, it's the most dominant thing Will has done.

Hannibal isn't certain what to expect, but even the uncertainty is welcome, for it's better than lingering on memories of a cold winter morning nearly forty years ago. Even the blip of a reminder is enough to make his pulse jump, but before Hannibal can focus on shoving the shades of the nightmare away, Will is lacing their fingers together. Hannibal looks down, considers the picture they make, and then gratefully squeezes Will's hands. He's still holding them as Will leans forward, as their chests come to rest together and Will guides his hands up over his head, held fists pillowed soft on the bed. It's a position they've fallen into before, Hannibal allowing Will his dominance, but it feels different this time. It feels uncertain at first and then welcome. Hannibal breathes deep and despite his annoyance that Will can likely feel the quicker beat of his heart, he enjoys Will's weight on him, enjoys the tactile scratch of his stubble.

What he doesn't enjoy is what Will says. Hannibal frowns, for despite how welcome Will's presence is, he is still a shrewd man and misses little. "Is that not ambiguous?" He questions, lowly. "I will be honest. You've already told me not to lie. The rest, though..." Hannibal trails off. He has no desire to tell Will he doesn't trust him, for he does, but there are certain things he trusts no one with. They will need to have a real conversation about this if Will is serious, but Will seems more inclined to serve as a distraction. Given the scope of Hannibal's focus, he doesn't object. "We will discuss it later," he finishes, for Will is already leaning down to speak into Hannibal's ear and he's already tilting his head to feel the scratch of stubble against his skin.

"Will," Hannibal says, both as reprimand and gratitude. The press of Will's tongue to his skin is welcome, and while the shadow of his nightmare still lingers, the close proximity and tactile reward is helping. Hannibal squeezes Will's hands a little tighter - though is careful not to injure him - and when he's asked to give a specific fantasy, he goes still. Hannibal doesn't miss what Will is doing, but it's also well done. Will is still in control. It's clever.

Perhaps to reward that, Hannibal lets himself give the question due attention. He's quiet as he thinks, as he pictures their situations reversed, and he takes a moment to press a kiss to Will's shoulder, his eyes sliding closed.

" _Fantasy_ implies sexual, and given our positioning... very well. I've thought about this. About waking you and pinning your wrists to the bed. About telling you to grip the spindles and to keep your hands there. That if you move, I'll stop." Hannibal doesn't miss the significance, and he draws in a deep, careful breath of Will's scent before continuing.

"Then I take you apart. Kiss you, explore you, with my hands, my lips, my tongue, and teeth, until all you can think about is where I'll touch you next. And only when you're trembling and on the verge of coming do I stop and tell you that you're not allowed to come until I give you permission. Then I start again, touching you, tasting you, and stopping whenever you get too close. I think about how beautiful you look when you're desperate."

* * *

_'Is that not ambiguous?'_

Will has thought about various things he _could_ ask of Hannibal, but what's the point of listing them off, of allowing Hannibal to form opinions and judgments on them? He'd rather surprise Hannibal and not allow the man to possibly be prepared. It's probably not the smartest course of action to take, but it's what Will Graham is going to do nonetheless.

_'I will be honest.'_

Hannibal may not lie outright, but lies of omission exist for a reason. Certainly, they both know this. The ring is a poignant reminder of such a thing. Whatever had woke Hannibal is another. Will _could_ have asked, yes, but Will had a feeling that he would not have received a satisfactory answer. He's not always tactless. He understood Hannibal was shaken and trying valiantly to not show it. So Will had allowed the issue to be left alone (for now) and taken the route of distraction. He's okay with leaving the details for later because Will knows he plans on not giving any of them away. This is about trust. After all, he has _Dahlia_ and Hannibal now has _Kairos_.

He's sure Hannibal has fantasies. They've spoken, although not in detail, of possibilities involving each other. (Will still remembers asking whether or not Hannibal would go to his knees and lick his feet...) Hannibal has been aware and accepting of his desire for a much longer span of time than Will, so Will is certain that his demand will be met with an intriguing answer. Will squeezes Hannibal's hands back. There's a moment of silence following Hannibal saying his name, one in which Hannibal is likely thinking. Will's smiles against his neck. It feels good to know he'll be obeyed and that Hannibal is taking his time as well.

As he listens to Hannibal share, heat pools low and Will's cock noticeably hardens. How could he not be aroused by the scene Hannibal is describing? (And yes, Will notices the ' _if you move, I'll stop_ ' addition. Two could play at the game, apparently.) Will's heart beats a little quicker, closer to Hannibal's own. He once again nuzzles the side of Hannibal's face, a long pleased exhale leaving his nostrils.

"You've got me all hard, Hannibal," Will whispers, his hips pushing forward to emphasize the presence of his erection.

"I think you should show me the position - hands grabbing the spindles, yeah? Would you do that for me, baby? I want to see it." He uses the term of endearment with intent.

Will's grip doesn't lessen as he slides off Hannibal. He's careful to maintain touching Hannibal - grounding him - as space is created between them. Will's touch turns encouraging, his hands running down Hannibal's arms to gear him up for moving - hopefully into the position from the fantasy.

* * *

Will is not the only one affected by the fantasy. It really is worthy of praise, Hannibal decides, and attempts to make a mental note to congratulate Will on his method later. He doesn't doubt that Will has taken some of this idea from things Hannibal has said, but given the scope of the moment, it does work. Instead of merely giving a command, Will asks Hannibal to tell him something, engaging his creative thinking, allowing him to form shades and images in his mind that he wishes to explore. Hannibal speaks, and as heat pools low in his stomach, he, too, begins to harden. It's likely slower than Will as he's starting from a point of shielded distress, but that he's able to get hard at all is a testament to Will's idea.

He pictures Will in his mind and feels him in reality, and the mix speaks of safety, chasing some of the cold from the corners of his mind, replacing it with the heat Hannibal only feels for this man. Will even goes so far as to nuzzle closer and Hannibal wonders if Will _knows_ that the scrape of his stubble is as grounding as it is. He can't hazard a guess. Instead he merely settles and drinks in Will's response, feeling the heat of his exhale, feeling the beat of Will's heart, and - when Will responds, pointing out that he's hard - feeling the press of heat against his own. The knowledge is enough to send another frisson of heat through him and Hannibal allows himself to relax a little more.

There is a side of him that wishes to stubbornly refuse, to gather himself back up as he always does and slide a mask of composure back in place. That same side burns with the knowledge that Will had seen him distressed at all, but given what Will is asking of him, Hannibal pushes the impulse back. It's ready and waiting, itching to cover and shroud, but he focuses on Will's closeness, his scent, his heat, and allows it to fall aside as currently unimportant.

What _is_ important is the way Will speaks to him, and what he asks. Hannibal pauses just for a moment, then relents, nodding, particularly with the low cadence to Will's voice and the soft use of that term of endearment. It's a word that could only sound appealing on Will's lips, and though Hannibal is reluctant to lose the grip of Will's hands, he allows him to go as he shifts slightly. His hands move, and instead of grabbing two separate spindles on the headboard, Hannibal carefully takes the same one in both hands, one on top of the other, putting a slightly greater strain on his muscles as he'd seen in his mind's eye. Will had asked to see the position, and Hannibal has no real desire to deny him, particularly given the way Will's touch slides down Hannibal's arms.

Hannibal swallows and takes a moment before he wets his lips and focuses on the cold wood under his palms and the rougher, warm press of Will's fingers. "There is very little I would not do for you, Will," he says, honestly. "You need only ask. Or, given your desire, you need only instruct. Am I to keep my hands here, then?"

* * *

Will's not obliged immediately, but it's almost better this way. It means Hannibal is thinking over the request and hopefully _feeling_ something about it too. It's certainly not the most risque order, but it's one that's been given with Will's desire to be more dominant out in the open. Thankfully, he feels Hannibal nod against him. Maybe arousal helps, maybe it doesn't, because yeah, Will had noticed that Hannibal's body had been responding to the confessed fantasy. The fantasy, while not overtly explicit, was entirely Hannibal. Consuming. Intense. It's something Will isn't likely to forget.

He's at Hannibal's side as he watches Hannibal's hands reach back and, instead of grabbing separate spindles, the older man clasps onto a single spindle on the headboard. Will smiles, his eyes roaming over Hannibal who's laid out before him, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight from the window. Will trails a hand down Hannibal's chest, through chest hair, down to his abdomen, ghosting across the scar before running his palm over the tenting in the sleep pants. He does like the silk material, especially over Hannibal's arousal. He feels tempted to nuzzle against it, but another time.

"Very good," Will appraises him, his voice warm. "But I have something different in mind. I want you to turn around, face the headboard and be on your knees. Then you can grip the spindles and keep your hands there." Will rolls away to allow Hannibal space to accomplish the order, his boxers feeling more uncomfortable at the thought of Hannibal in this new position.

As Hannibal moves to comply, Will realizes that he hasn't exactly given the proper instructions. He gives himself an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. Hannibal is sitting upright on his knees and grasping the spindles higher up - like Will had instructed, yes - but that's not what Will wants. This position isn't vulnerable or sexual enough.

"Sorry. I mean... Get down. On your forearms. Like if I were to fuck you from behind. Doggy-style." After a beat he adds on, "And don't say 'language'."

* * *

Hannibal feels the distance between them, even with Will's hands light on his arms. He's content to remain as he is, but Will has rolled off onto the side of the bed closest to the window, and it takes Hannibal angling his head just a little to use Will's shoulder to eclipse the sight. Only then does he allow himself to start relaxing again, and the gentle, approving slide of Will's hand assists in facilitating that. Focus caught wherever Will's hand happens to be, Hannibal follows it as it slides down, over his chest, his abdomen, lingering at the bullet wound in a way that makes him still, but not even Hannibal is immune to the way Will's palm rubs him through his pants. Hannibal's breath catches and he begins to lift his hips into the sensation before recalling that he's not been told how to respond. Given that this is the first time Will has actively shone a light on his desires to dominate, Hannibal feels it better to play it safe.

He's glad he does. Will indulges himself and then moves on, and with his voice warm, he gives Hannibal another set of instructions. For a moment Hannibal hesitates, the muscles in his arms tensing in the only visible sign of his displeasure. He doesn't enjoy the idea of not being able to see Will, but given the window still half-visible over his shoulder, perhaps it _is_ safer. Hannibal swallows and then does as he'd been told. Will had instructed him to turn around and face the headboard on his knees. Kneeling on the bed is perhaps not something Hannibal had expected, but there is plenty Will could do. He does as told, getting up onto his knees, his back straight, and reaches over to set his hands on the spindles in question. It's only Will's sigh that tells him he's misinterpreted the directions.

Immediately he takes his hands back and looks back at Will (over his _other_ shoulder) with a small frown. Yet to Will's credit, he doesn't look upset. He looks exasperated, but he doesn't look like the exasperation is directed at _Hannibal_. The apology confirms this, and Hannibal waits until Will has properly clarified to move. Or... he intends to, but the eventual instructions give him pause. His eyebrows lift and his eyes widen fractionally in his surprise.

They have been intimate before, a few times since that first time, but never in the position Will is talking about. For a moment Hannibal hesitates merely as it _is_ a more vulnerable position, but he feels a soft spark of arousal at the idea (and at hearing Will say the phrase ' _fuck you from behind_ ') and eventually makes his decision.

"...Very well. Though I would ask that you... maintain contact," he says, and tries to ignore the discomfort at implying he needs something, regardless of what it is.

With Will's gaze a solid weight on him, Hannibal slides back against the sheets, moving further down the bed to give himself room. Then he does as he'd been told, spreading his legs to brace his weight as he bends down and braces himself on his forearms. He assumes the spindles are still a priority, so he reaches out and grasps one in each hand, near the base. Grasping one in the same hand would only threaten his balance and he doesn't know what Will wants. Hannibal merely breathes as he keeps himself in that position, feeling a prickle of heat at the position Will has chosen.

"Is this acceptable?" He asks, for he does want to do this properly, even if it leaves him feeling more exposed.

* * *

Told to maintain contact, Will nods. Contact - whether visual or physical - is important to Hannibal. Will knows this, but he hasn't always been aware of this need of Hannibal's. Early on, he would have hardly cared to notice or oblige such a thing. Will had been so uncertain, warring with his own needs and far too selfish to care.

He's not that man now, though. When they have had sex, whether it was fucking or something closer to making love, Will let Hannibal be on his back. It enabled Hannibal both to see and touch as he pleased. This new position, if Hannibal behaves, comes with its own restraints. Hannibal won't be able to reach out and touch _or_ see.

Will watches Hannibal obey _again_ and Will's pulse quickens knowing that they're both on the same page in this. They both know that Hannibal is allowing this, essentially giving in to Will's desires _because_ it's Will. Hannibal may not naturally be submissive, but it's a complete thrill to have Hannibal be willing to play along.

Hannibal looks like he's ready to be mounted, on his knees and forearms and with good posture even. Technically it may be a more impersonal position, but it's really fucking arousing. Beside Hannibal's torso Will gets to his knees, a hand coming to rest at the dip in Hannibal's back. He strokes down and over the swell of Hannibal's ass. He should have gotten Hannibal to slip off his sleep pants. Will scowls at himself, chiding himself mentally for not thinking ahead. Whatever. It's manageable, he'll just have to slip them off himself.

"It's perfect," Will affirms. "You're doing so well, baby. Just like I asked." He's pretty sure reassurance is going to be vital in activities such as these, but he needs to be careful to not overdo it and come across as placating Hannibal. He'll have to walk a fine line. It's going to be a learning experience for the both of them and that's fine with Will. Will shuffles closer, his hand reaching around to pull at the drawstring of the pants and pulling it undone.

"Have you been in my position before, Hannibal? With any of your former partners?" Will specifically tries to use nicer language because he knows Hannibal doesn't like to share about past sexual relations.

* * *

That Hannibal is not a submissive man is not a surprise to either of them, but in a way that makes this concession more poignant. This isn't something Hannibal would ask for on his own, but it _is_ something he's silently pleased to do for Will. It may not be his natural default but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy Will's dominance. He doesn't _dislike_ being submissive to Will. He's simply too aware to allow himself to sink into the mindless state of pleasure and comfort Will is capable of reaching when he puts all his trust in Hannibal's hands. It's one of the differences between them. Will can still trust completely. Hannibal trusts as he's able.

Right now, he is attempting to trust, and mostly succeeding. The memory and shades of the nightmare are still lingering, colder without being able to see Will, but the touch to his back is an immediate point of contact that draws a soft breath from his throat. He doesn't arch into it blatantly, but he does lean into the touch subtly, drinking in the rougher press of Will's fingers as his hand slides down. That it doesn't stop at the waistband of his pants isn't surprising, and Hannibal closes his eyes, focusing on the heat from Will's palm until the lack of extra sensory input threatens him again. Hannibal opens his eyes again, silently irritated with his own mind, but also taking pleasure from Will's attention.

He may not be submissive but that doesn't mean he's immune to praise. The thought of pleasing Will does settle him and draw something soft and safe over his senses even if his mind doesn't shut itself off like a true subspace.

Hannibal shifts just enough to help Will reach down lower when he anticipates the slide of Will's hand, and he shivers slightly as Will undoes the drawstring of his pants. It lessens some of the pressure against his clothed cock, though not by much. So caught up in the feeling is he that Hannibal _almost_ misses what Will asks. He's distracted, shaken by nightmares and this new development, but he still draws himself back enough to focus on answering Will's question.

"No," he says after a moment. "Had I dabbled in dominance, it would have given me an avenue in which to slip or go too far. I thought it best not to risk it. I'd allow elements, but generally I attempted only to suggest control, not command."

Hannibal finishes with a soft sound, something bordering on discomfort but not quite there. Will's hand still hasn't made a reappearance and it's only that that makes him go silent and re-evaluate the last question. Will had asked him if he'd been in his position before. Hannibal had assumed Will had meant dominance - overlooking a willing submissive. Frowning, Hannibal suddenly wonders if the question had been even simpler.

"...Unless you meant sexually," he amends, trying not to sound mildly put out at the lack of clarification. "Having sex with them in this position. In which case... yes, I have."

* * *

It would be far too easy to throw in the towel, to want to give up because, he, yet again, hasn't been clear enough. Until now - until this - Will hasn't had to worry about being succinct. Hannibal thinks 'position' is referring to dominance and submission, not the current physical position and all that it implies. Will can't even be upset at him for the misunderstanding. His one hand holds the now loose drawstring. He is ticked off at himself, but he tries to not let it show because Hannibal is sharing with him and being honest. That's what matters.

Frankly, he's not surprised at the admission - that Hannibal hasn't truly let his full dominant side out to play. This is something that they can change. Not now, but later. Will's not as hesitant about the idea of submitting to Hannibal again nor is he as judgmental toward the tapping incident. If Hannibal can submit, so can he. (And Will _wants_ to indulge Hannibal, he wants them both to be able to explore and incite, to play and push.)

He brings his other hand to the waistband of the sleep pants, now just remembering that he needs to try and remain in contact with Hannibal. Whether or not Hannibal reads into Will's previous inaction or thinks on the possible other meaning, he speaks up, actually addressing Will's intended question. Will has no real judgment on Hannibal telling him that he has been in Will's position before - fucking someone from behind. It's fairly common, after all. He's not jealous about it because he knows neither one of them will be fucking anyone else anymore.

A part of him wants to apologize for the misunderstanding that's his fault, but he refrains, thinking it best to keep this focused on Hannibal and not his own insecurities. As Will pulls down the pyjama pants he comments lightly, "And now you're on your knees, role reversed."

Bare ass before him, he lets the sleep pants pool around Hannibal's knees. Will brings both hands to Hannibal's shoulders and runs his palms down Hannibal's back soothingly. When he gets to his ass, Will spreads Hannibal open.

"I'm going to fuck you like this, Hannibal. Take you from behind. But while I get you ready, we're going to have a little chat." He squeezes Hannibal's ass. "I need to get a towel and the lube. While I'm gone I want you to let go of the headboard and grab my pillow. Bury your face in my scent. Be a good boy for me."

With that laid out, Will leans forward and kisses the dip in Hannibal's back before getting off the bed and going to retrieve the necessary items from their bathroom. He's hoping the addition of his pillow can help ease his absence.

* * *

Ah. He _had_ meant the sexual position. Hannibal reads into the touch to the waistband of his pants, the slide of Will's fingers, and the extra contact does what it's supposed to and soothes over his slightly frayed nerves. Hannibal takes a slow breath to center himself, and after a moment of mulling it over like the flavor of an aged wine, he allows his irritation to fade away. That Will isn't being as precise isn't his fault. This is relatively new ground for them both. Well... partly. The _expectation_ behind giving it a name finally is what has them both aware. Will has dominated before, in small ways. His command for Hannibal to keep his hands to himself and his hips still had been surprising but he'd followed it because he hadn't wished to injure Will. In the past, Will has given him other commands - telling him to make noise or risk him stopping.

The difference, Hannibal thinks, is that neither of them have given thought to it when it's been impulsive. Will hesitantly leading into his topic, a soft request to make the unspoken spoken has put a weight of expectation on them both. There are no doubts left behind, no shades of gray. Will has clearly outlined the role he wishes to take tonight and Hannibal is aware that he needs to allow it, to relax, to unlace his possessive grip on his own control and hand it to Will, however reluctant. He finds it easier with Will's hands on him, particularly given the position, his legs spread, back as straight as he can make it, and weight resting on his forearms and knees.

The position gets more vulnerable when Will goes on, and Hannibal draws in a small, quick breath as Will eases his pants down, but almost immediately Will is moving to soothe. Hannibal finds himself distantly impressed before he cuts the thought off and focuses instead on the slide of Will's hands. They move down his back, down to his ass, and Hannibal shivers at the sensation and is not immune to the stab of heat that moves through him when Will tells him what he's intending. Hannibal lets out a breath through his teeth - a sound he sometimes makes in lieu of cursing - and he swallows, nodding. Will has never taken him like this before, and he's surprised by the force of how much the idea appeals.

"All right," he says, simply to confirm he's heard.

He is... uncertain how he feels at that lingering phrase. _Good boy_. It sends a complicated heat through him that mixes with a small note of indignation that Hannibal ruminates over before letting go. He still does as asked, releasing the headboard and moving instead to pull Will's pillow in closer. As he does so, he feels the bed shift and listens as Will leaves, his lingering kiss cooling on the small of Hannibal's back. Hannibal swallows and decides against closing his eyes as Will leaves. He feels the separation acutely, and he's aware of his position, of how he must look, but there is no submissive mindset to break. (He remembers being out of Will's reach for only a second that night he'd killed Henri, remembers Will's panic, throwing the glove at him, and he frowns, considers, and absolves Will of his lack of communication. They both are learning each other even now.)

Hannibal remains where he is even as his thoughts threaten to nip hard at his heels. Will's absence is more difficult than he'd anticipated, but just as it's reaching uncomfortable levels, Hannibal recalls the other command. He leans down and presses his face to Will's pillow and breathes in his scent. It is... _immediately_ helpful and Hannibal releases a soft breath of relief and he breathes in great lungfuls of Will's scent. Slowly his thoughts settle and focus on Will, on his presence, his scent, and the tension Hannibal hadn't been aware of creeping in releases some, leaving his shoulders more relaxed, no longer tense and rigid. Only when he hears Will's soft footsteps does he lean up enough to speak, for with the lessening of distress comes the ability to think clearly.

"Thank you," he says first, for he suspects Will might need to know he'd helped. "What... is this chat going to be about?"

* * *

It's a risk leaving Hannibal, but Will refuses to baby the man. Nothing good would come from that. He knows from personal experience that growth often only comes after wandering, sometimes aimlessly, in a place of discomfort. But it's that struggle that makes any change actually matter, makes it mean something. Change is often uncomfortable; the unknown can be distressing, frightening, even. As exciting as this is for Will - to be more explicitly flirting with dominance - it also comes with a level of unease. (He doesn't want to take another misstep as he's feeling his way and trying to get _closer_ to Hannibal through this.)

He assumes that the pillow can be a substitute for him; that's at least Will's hope after he gives the instructions and climbs off the bed. He's not gone long. It takes less than a minute to stride to the en suite bathroom and grab the familiar bottle of lube and a towel. He forgoes picking up the box of condoms. (Closer.) When he returns and Hannibal thanks him, Will knows that his assumption about the pillow had been correct. A warm satisfaction fills him. (He's not often in a position where he's able to take care of Hannibal and it feels _good_ to be able to do so. It's a step closer to _equal_.)

And then Hannibal inquires about the impending conversation. Will chuckles and gives Hannibal a playful swat on his ass. "Be patient." It's not said unkindly. "All in due time, baby."

He's on his knees again, shuffling closer and uncapping the lube. Will's fairly comfortable doing this particular activity now. He doesn't need to take deep breaths and psych himself up nor hesitate and wait for instruction or prompting. Pointer finger slick, his left hand comes to part Hannibal's ass while he circles Hannibal's hole.

"While I do this, you're going to share your fantasy on how your first time _taking me_ would go," Will explains while his finger pushes inside slowly. "Don't tell me all at once, Hannibal, and make sure to use plenty of details." This is something they've never talked about, but it's also been on Will's mind. Before it simply seemed like an inevitability, something he'd _have to do._ But now, seeing how Hannibal responds to it, Will has a curling of curiosity and interest in allowing it to happen.

* * *

Having expectations in a situation that cannot be predictable isn't a good idea, but Hannibal is still expecting a certain underlying feeling. A thread of tension interwoven under their interactions like firm netting, supporting the both of them in this break from the norm. So when Will's hand comes down across his ass - while playful - Hannibal still jerks a little and then shoots Will a look over his shoulder. It's instinctive, a mild furrow to his brow, almost indignant, but Will's soft chuckle betrays the actual intent. Hannibal still lifts an eyebrow but (magnanimously) he says nothing and merely turns his attention back ahead - away from the window. Glancing at it had been a small mistake.

So he takes Will's instruction to heart and focuses both on the mild prickle of lingering sensation (were it not for the indignation, it could be enjoyable) and the way Will settles on the bed. With Will's pillow close, Hannibal considers proper positioning and then gives in, drawing it a little closer just as Will uncaps the lube. Hannibal follows the sounds, listening as Will prepares himself, and he breathes in slowly when Will's finger presses against hot skin. It's familiar and enjoyable, an intimate touch, one he's only allowed Will to enjoy. Wetting his lips, Hannibal allows some of the tension to again leave his shoulders as he lowers himself down, aware that holding tension in his body will not be conducive to this moment.

Yet Will's command _is_ a surprise. Hannibal stills and then his lips part on a soft near-gasp as Will's finger slowly begins to push in. It's different like this but no less sensitive and much more exposed, but all he needs to do is imagine how transfixed he'd be were their positions reversed. A soft wave of heat prickles up his spine and Hannibal allows himself to relax, his arms shifting forward to better brace himself as he settles his head on Will's pillow. He'd spread his legs wider, but his pants are in the way, and perhaps Will likes the sight. Hannibal knows he would.

"If you wish to explore my fantasies of you, you needn't go through all this trouble, Will," Hannibal says quietly, but his voice is more relaxed, not churlish or stiff. He merely turns away from the window and rests his cheek on the pillow as he strives to keep himself as relaxed as possible. The slide of Will's finger inside his body - while growing familiar - is not a sensation Hannibal thinks he'll ever tire of. Each moment is a gift and it's a familiar enough sensation to ground him. It is also rather distracting, but Hannibal does wet his lips and allow himself to think.

He doesn't have to think very hard. He's known for some time how he wishes to take Will apart. Ever since he'd watched Will fall apart so beautifully the moment Hannibal had tasted him for the first time, he'd known. Hannibal doesn't close his eyes for he doesn't want to risk finding something there that would ruin this. Instead he seeks out the bare curve of Will's shoulder in the room, illuminated by moonlight and it settles him.

“If that day comes, I wish to savor you. To take you to bed and leave no inch of skin unkissed. You're beautiful when you're desperate, and when you're impatient. I would like to push you to that point and take my time. If it means you come once before we've started, I'd enjoy working you up again. With my hands, perhaps with my tongue. To have you under me is not an experience I would ever attempt to rush through..."

* * *

Will takes note that Hannibal doesn't seem to care for the playful swat to his ass. Is it pride? Will thinks it is. While it would be interesting to explore, it's something for another day. Will assumes there will be much that pops up that he'll have to make a decision on. He's more known for his impulsive in the moment decision making, so he's a little uncertain how he'll fare. Does practice make perfect work here or will he possibly take too big of a misstep one day and have Hannibal decide that his ineptitude is too much? Will stuffs down his uncertainty.

_'If you wish to explore my fantasies of you, you needn't go through all this trouble, Will.'_

Will's lips quirk into a small grin at that. He doesn't take the bait. Of course Hannibal would rather not be doing this - submitting - but Will says nothing. His finger pushes all the way in, Hannibal's body accepting and hot. Will tries to concentrate on his task, intently watching as he works just one finger in and out. He noticeably falters, stopping mid-push as Hannibal begins to talk of 'taking.' Will's arousal flares, boxers now tight and uncomfortable. He should have taken them off. (More should's, more lessons to learn...)

His left hand leaves Hannibal's ass to pull out his erection through his fly. Will shuffles closer, his hand coming to hold his cock still as he rubs the length of it purposefully against Hannibal's ass cheeks.

"You've got me so hard, baby," Will murmurs. He sounds a little more breathless than he'd like to. Who could really blame him following Hannibal's admission? "I'm going to let you do that one day, Hannibal. I'm going to let you undo me, have your way with me..."

Will adds another finger - probably too soon - but Hannibal can handle it. Using enough lube helps. Will takes a deep breath as the digits slowly press all the way in.

"You're going to fuck yourself on my fingers, okay? Pull yourself away from them when you're ready and then push back."

This is something they haven't done before exactly and Will is excited to try it out. His hand leaves his cock to come to Hannibal's hip to steady, and also offer another point of connection.

* * *

The slide of Will's finger into his body makes Hannibal falter, lips parted on a sound that never escapes. It's a familiar touch, one becoming more and more welcome. Perhaps this isn't entirely what he'd once imagined but Hannibal is happy to share intimacy with Will in any way he allows. There's a thrill he feels at Will's fixation, and while he's not in the right position to see the flicker of lust pass Will's eyes, Hannibal knows it's there. It always is when he first feels the tight heat he'll be sliding himself into in time. This is only confirmed when Will draws his other hand away and Hannibal feels the hot press of Will's cock against his skin not a few moments later. His focus narrows immediately on Will's heat, on how hard he feels even if Hannibal can't _see_ him. He breathes a soft sound, welcoming, and takes pleasure in how breathless Will's voice is. That Hannibal's words can have such an effect only pleases him more.

Wetting his lips, Hannibal allows himself the softest breath of a moan when Will speaks, promising that one day his fantasy will become reality. Hannibal aches for it just as he aches for this, for Will's closeness, for his favor, for every moment of attention. The combination of Will's touch and his own focus on his fantasy help to drown out the shades from his nightmare, and Will's heat chases away the residual chill. " _Will_ ," Hannibal says softly, half-breath, half-prayer, interrupting the fantasy simply to let Will know he's heard and that he's enjoyed.

Before Hannibal can gather his thoughts again and continue, he feels the sudden push. His breath catches and Hannibal immediately shifts, trying to widen his stance as much as he can. The push of Will's second finger burns and aches but Hannibal drinks the sensation down. Maybe it's too soon, but Will is right. He can handle it. Hannibal welcomes the varying sensation and while a small furrow does form on his brow as he breathes through the slow, steady push of Will's fingers, he takes it and merely breathes once Will's knuckles press against his rim, his fingers all the way in.

The command leaves heat sliding through him and Hannibal's cock aches between his legs. This, too, is new and while he does wonder at the picture he must make, he knows that were Will to do this for him, he would be nothing short of rapt. Hannibal swallows and nods, showing he's heard, and shifts his weight, testing the stretch and fullness and the roughness of Will's calluses so deep. He also focuses on Will's hand on his hip, and as he attempts to gather himself back enough to continue Will's earlier instruction - telling him the fantasy - Hannibal experimentally leans forward on his forearms and feels the slick drag of Will's fingers easing back. His body clenches occasionally but he merely forces himself to relax again as he swallows and continues.

"I... I would like to do this to you. To take my time, to feel your heat as you feel mine. To prepare you slowly and thoroughly."

When he feels ready, Hannibal eases himself back and shivers through the glide of Will's fingers easing back into him. True to his instructions, Will keeps his fingers still and Hannibal feels something hot slide through him as he moves to repeat his actions, leaning forward and back slowly at first, and then working up into slow, languid rolls of his hips when he feels more able. It's an intoxicating slide of control over his own pleasure, though he cannot forget that Will has asked this of him. Controlling his control. It, too, is clever. Hannibal wets his lips.

"I would kiss you, would ask you to hold onto me in order to ground yourself, and I would take you apart slowly. Would revel in your desperation and would wear every mark you leave behind with pride. And only when you were ready for me would I hold you close and finally allow myself to have you, to feel your heat, to revel in your desperation.”

* * *

Will can vividly recall how nervous he was the first time doing this to Hannibal. He was incredibly careful and slow, unsure with the speed and technique to use. Hannibal hadn't chided him, but helped guide him through the preparation process. Hannibal had also encouraged him and let Will go at his own hesitant pace. There have been a lot of firsts in Will's life (first kisses, first injuries, first murders), but the first time he had sex with Hannibal - the first time they made love - it was both unforgettable and staggering in its impact on Will.

Everything changed that morning. His duplicity may have been a catalyst, may have lit the fuse for a potential disaster, but they had weathered the explosion that rocked them and came out on the other side. Their hands had been connected, their eyes open and it had felt like a different _Becoming_ , a gradual slide toward acceptance for Will. Two souls bared and reaching out and meeting finally... (Love.)

He used to be so uptight about the idea of giving 'it' up for Hannibal. Will had been incredulous that he'd ever let something so intimate and well, gay happen. Now it's laughable. Will knows where he stands with his sexual identity. If he had to use labels, he is, for all intents and purposes, a heterosexual male. Hannibal just happens to be his only exception and transcends his normal wiring. So he kisses Hannibal, and they embrace each other. Will lets Hannibal suck him off. They touch each other's dicks and sometimes cuddle at night. Will fingers Hannibal open and he fucks him. Now Will has also joined club blowjob apparently, but he doesn't feel any different; he's not bothered by it, He's seen how this all can make Hannibal feel, so yeah, Will is curious about their positions being reversed. (Another way to be equals, after all.)

Instruction given (' _You're going to fuck yourself on my fing_ ers...') and Hannibal complies. Will watches as Hannibal eases himself back before bearing down on Will's fingers. In his mind, Will believed this particular activity would be quite arousing, but experiencing it? Seeing Hannibal tremble as he controls this one movement is another thing entirely. His eyes don't move away as Hannibal works into an eventual rhythm... but Hannibal doesn't forget Will's earlier command - to share about his fantasy regarding taking Will.

"Me desperate, huh?" Will repeats the word and squeezes Hannibal's hip knowingly. Of course Hannibal wants to undo him, to see him desperate and writhing. They share this desire. He used to want to mess Hannibal up, but not so much now. No. Desperation, though...

"[Je veux que tu sois désespéré pour moi... seulement pour moi](I%20want%20you%20to%20be%20desperate%20for%20me...%20only%20for%20me.)." His phrasing is stilted, Will having to search his mind for the correct words. _(I want you to be desperate for me... only for me.)_ He's unsure how Hannibal will take the statement... or is it an actual order?

He decides that it _is_ an order. Will adds on, "[Je veux... je veux sentir ton... désespoir.](I%20want...%20I%20want%20to%20feel%20your...%20desperation.)" _(I want... I want to feel your... desperation.)_ Hannibal likes it better when he phrases desires in such a way. Perhaps this will help because Will wants to see Hannibal be desperate in this moment.

* * *

Yes, one day Hannibal intends to revel in Will's desperation. He's seen him so perfectly undone a few times, desperate and on the edge, his voice a breathless plea. But to be the conduit for Will's pleasure, to have Will under him, around him, to hold him and feel him shake apart is another matter entirely. He'd done it that first time, had held Will close and felt his heat, but he'd been blinded tantalizingly by his own pleasure, caught up in his own mind and the intensity of Will's movements. One day he'll enjoy the sight properly, with a clear mind, and lock snapshots of Will's desperation in his mind the same way he's locked away the look on his face when he reaches his pleasure. There are sketches in his sketchbook, blunt charcoal renditions of intimacy. He intends to add to those in time.

But this moment is decidedly different. Will's desperation isn't on display. Instead, the tables have turned. It's Will watching him now, Will's fingers deep inside of him as Hannibal works his hips to feel the drag and glide. It's hardly composed, and perhaps that's why Will wants him to do this. Will wants _him_ desperate and the thought is not unappealing. The potential loss of control threatens to be, but Hannibal carefully takes it and sets it aside in the same room in his mind he's attempted to shut the nightmare behind. Neither have a place here, with Will's fingers stretching him open but his hand on Hannibal's hip, an intimate reminder that this isn't for debasement.

Each roll of Hannibal's hips has him twitching. His skin is slightly flushed and his cock is heavy between his legs even as Will speaks, seeming interested in the idea that Hannibal wishes him desperate. Perhaps there is more Hannibal wishes to say, more of the fantasy, but he lets it bleed into the background as Will's voice cuts through the haze. It takes Hannibal only a moment to adjust to words that aren't English, and the slight accent, the way Will's voice remains slightly rough over the French is enough to make Hannibal shiver. That Will has made an effort to learn something so intimate has not escaped Hannibal's notice.

"[Seulement pour toi](Only%20for%20you.)," he agrees, and his voice is slightly breathless. _(Only for you.)_

It doesn't occur to him that this is actually a command until Will speaks again. His French is not as polished, the emphasis sometimes lost, but Will's addition makes Hannibal pause, makes his hips briefly still. It sounds like a request more than an order, but he finds himself more amenable to obeying this. A lick of heat creeps up his spine and a shiver slides through him, his voice rough on an exhale of Will's name.

He's distracted from the fantasy by reality and he finally consents to closing his eyes, focusing on what Will must be seeing. He imagines Will in the same position, imagines the curve to his spine and the flush to his skin, the submission in his spread legs and the way he'd search, seeking out Hannibal's fingers. Hannibal's control is greater; he's capable of keeping still, but he wonders if Will truly wants that. Likely not. No, he's asking for desperation, and Hannibal takes a deep, steadying breath and peels back some of his control, pressing back against Will's fingers, feeling them slide in deep and _really_ feeling them. He feels the press of Will's calluses, the stretch of his fingers, and the prickle of pleasure when he presses back.

Will wants desperation, so Hannibal shifts. He angles his hips differently, lower, and presses back and up _just_ enough to feel the slide of Will's fingers exactly where he wants them and Hannibal's breath leaves him on a punched-out exhale at the first slide against his prostate. He keeps his hips like that, repeating it, resting his cheek against the pillow and clutching it tighter as he focuses on his own pleasure, on the delicious slides of it through his body, alternating between pressing back and grinding back. It doesn't take long for soft sounds of pleasure, of effort, to escape him, and Hannibal merely allows them. Will wants to hear them.

* * *

When Hannibal agrees in French, Will sighs at the softness. Hannibal has spoken many different languages to him (Japanese, Italian...), but Will prefers French and Hannibal's native tongue of Lithuanian. Will's never really been interested in a foreign language before, but having something to share with Hannibal is actually meaningful to him (other than murder and other assorted darkness...) Here in Quebec they have a new life. It's a simple one and Will doesn't know how long it will last before something gives or snaps, but for now, they hide from the cold winter of a reality that they're wanted men.

But unlike the bite of winter, Hannibal is a heatwave. Consuming and engulfing, Will embraces it, yearning to bask in the incandescence (always craving _closer, more)_. Burning up in Hannibal, enveloped by his singular focus, Will has found his home.

Hannibal finds his pleasure on Will's fingers and Will watches, captivated. It does take him repeating his request for Hannibal to process what he wants (yes, desperation). Hannibal's hips momentarily stutter. Will sees him tremble slightly, hears his own name breathed out. He thinks Hannibal is likely imagining their positions reversed, for aren't they each one side on the same coin? With one casual toss, it could be Hannibal commanding and Will on his knees instead - a fantasy blurring with reality, the ebb and flow of their dynamic.

And then Hannibal allows himself to let go just a bit _more_. Will watches the physical adjustment - Hannibal shifting - and he watches Hannibal seek and find more intense stimulation.

"God... Hannibal, baby," Will mumbles, momentarily stunned at the image - at Hannibal's desperation. "[Tu es parfait](You're%20perfect.)." _(You're perfect.)_ He feels wholly unprepared for this scene unfolding even though it's of his construction.

At Hannibal relinquishing more restraint, hearing him express pleasure, Will suddenly urges, "[Dis-moi. Dis-moi...](Tell%20me.%20Tell%20me...)" He falters and decides to switch to English. (It feels borderline wrong to mention love in French for some reason.) "Tell me you love me. _Do it_ , Hannibal."

This, too, is an order that Will knows will be obeyed. It's been some time since Will last heard Hannibal utter the words, over a month at least, and he needs them now.

* * *

Hannibal's breathing is a little more labored as he works his hips back, his lips parted, cheek resting on Will's pillow. There is a small part of him that wishes to protest this loss of control, but it's quickly overshadowed by the gentle press of Will's hand against his hip, the scent of their mingled arousal in the air, and the breathless, awed tone to Will's voice when he finally finds it. He sounds transfixed, almost reverent, and as Will's consonants soften over lilting French, Hannibal's breathing deepens and he presses back just a little harder, chasing the deep, aching pleasure of Will's fingers inside of him. It feels good, but it goes beyond even that. Pleasure is one thing, even if it is pleasure by Will's hand, but that's not all this is.

It's the soft, awed tone of Will's voice that truly makes a difference, that truly helps to chase the shadows away from the corners of Hannibal's mind. It's his touch, the way his palm presses gently to Hannibal's hip and the way he angles the fingers of his other hand to make sure each press back is careful. The pleasure of Will's touch is good, but hearing his name, hearing the pet name, and hearing the softly-spoken French is enough to drag a low groan from his throat, heartfelt in its honesty. He grinds back, comforted by the prickle of sensation that races with heat up his spine at the thought of Will watching him, and he loses himself in the rhythm.

That is, he loses himself until Will's voice again sounds. The French is hitched in a way that has Hannibal aching. He slows the gentle roll of his hips, realizing belatedly that he feels more breathless than he'd assumed, and he looks back at Will over his shoulder as best as he can, expression dazed. The request sends heat sliding through him anew but this is one that Hannibal doesn't even have to think about. He shivers with a low sound, bordering desperation, and nods shakily.

"I love you," he replies, and his voice is low and thick with pleasure, with sentiment. It's only after the words are out that Hannibal realizes they feel new. He hasn't said them in awhile, then, and he wets his lips as he breathes through the next press backwards. "Will, Beloved... only you," he says, breathless, and between his legs, his cock begins to leak.

* * *

There's no way for Will to know all of what Hannibal is going through in this moment. There had been a nightmare of some kind and perhaps it's not smart to be embarking on such a thing - carving out dynamics for them to explore - but here they are anyway. Hannibal _is_ perfect. Hannibal is beautiful and Will does feels his desperation. The moment is charged and erotic in a way Will can't even begin to fully comprehend. His cock, while it has had no real attention, is completely hard. All he can do is watch, eyes wide, his hand grasping Hannibal's hip while Hannibal continues to fuck himself on his fingers.

_'I love you...'_

_'Will, Beloved, only you.'_

"[Oui, seulement... seulement moi](Yes,%20only...%20only%20me.)," Will agrees, his voice tight with emotion. His eyes close for a moment and he allows himself to really feel it. He _is_ loved. Hannibal loves him and maybe they're not exactly equals - not yet anyway - and maybe their relationship is fucked up and far from perfect, but it's still a relationship. They have each other and they would change and get better. They have time. Hannibal loves him...

Will looks down Hannibal's back , at the faint sheen of sweat, and he remembers the first time they showered together. He'd seen Hannibal's belt and his mind had lit up with ideas that made Will feel both uncomfortable and intrigued. His mind is back in that place and Will shudders as the idea becomes more formed.

"Hannibal, hang on for a moment," Will instructs and he pulls his hand away. The air is cool on his slick fingers that have been heated by Hannibal's body. Will squeezes Hannibal's hip and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to one of Hannibal's buttocks. He wipes his hand off on the towel. "I'm going to grab something. Stay put," Will explains as he once again climbs off the bed. He goes to Hannibal's dresser pulling open the appropriate drawer containing various coiled belts. He selects one randomly before joining Hannibal on the bed, this time to the side of Hannibal.

"I want to secure a belt around your neck, Hannibal," Will says, his free hand petting Hannibal's slightly sweaty hair.

"Will you do that for me?"

* * *

It would be simple to lose himself in this were he to allow himself to. Will aches to see him desperate and Hannibal has no true reservations about it. Desperation is already beginning to find him, his breathing slightly ragged as he chases the feeling of Will's fingers. Normally he wouldn't allow himself this but Will wishes to see it. Any reservations Hannibal has are gone, quieted by Will's soft murmurs in French and by his touch, by how much Will is clearly enjoying this. While submission doesn't come naturally to Hannibal, he's willing to court it to witness Will in a different element, and Will's domination has never been cruel. It helps to chase the shadows of the nightmares away, helps to free his mind.

Will's given him no indication that he wishes Hannibal to stop, and while he does consider continuing the fantasy, he'd said all he needed to. Exploring Will, taking him apart with pleasure, being so intimate with him and feeling Will fall apart against him is exactly what Hannibal wants. He's said enough, and so instead he focuses on the other command, on rocking his hips and feeling the pointed glance of Will's fingers against his prostate. He chases the sensation of abandon even if it is a ways away and so when Will's voice cuts through again, it takes Hannibal a few moments to properly understand.

When the instruction registers, Hannibal reluctantly stills his hips, breathing hard, and muffles a soft sound at the loss when Will eases his fingers free. The soft kiss is calming and as Hannibal chases the traces of desire from the forefront of his mind, he shifts just enough to watch as Will makes his way over to Hannibal's dresser. Staunchly ignoring the window, Hannibal's focus is on Will and he watches curiously as Will draws out one of his belts. Immediately Hannibal pauses for the sight brings a plethora of images to mind. Beating, restraint, to bite, any number of things. It's not that he doesn't trust Will with it, it's merely that this is also new. Hannibal finds himself curious rather than apprehensive.

At least he does until Will explains what he intends to do with it. Hannibal blinks and looks down at the belt - nice, padded leather, soft to touch, high quality - and the logistics quickly work through his mind. There's no way to safely fashion the belt into a lead without punching a hole in it, but such a complaint is trivial. Hannibal is _far_ more curious about this sudden change. He wets his lips, breathing slow to calm himself, to drag his mind away from the pleasure he'd been chasing. Will's fingers in his hair help with that. "Of course, Will," he says simply, and begins to rise again before remembering Will had told him to stay put. Directionless, Hannibal frowns. He's not certain if Will wishes _him_ to secure the belt (as his instructions had indicated) or if he simply wants permission. Hannibal decides to meet him halfway.

"Settle the belt around my neck and work the end tip through the buckle," he instructs calmly, "Go until it's flush to my skin. Then loosen it, enough that you can fit two or three fingers under the back, and mark the place on the strap with your finger. You'll need to put a hole there. The number 11 scalpel in the drawer I use to sharpen pencils should suffice. Mind your fingers."

* * *

Will doesn't think on the technicalities of this particular endeavor. He knows what he wants - to use the belt as _both_ a collar and a leash - but he's not entirely sure how to achieve the desired effect. The idea had simply came up to the surface and Will had succumbed to its allure. He pictures the leather snug around Hannibal's neck, of Hannibal wearing _his_ collar willingly. It's been months since they had talked about such a thing, but Will hasn't forgotten. He can see himself behind Hannibal, fucking into him, holding onto the end of the belt, the strap hovering above Hannibal's back... He could pull on it, yank Hannibal's head back, likely elicit a delicious response in the process, a coveted sound from Hannibal for Will delights in any and all of the quieter sounds he can pull from Hannibal.

He sees Hannibal begin to move, obviously wanting to take it upon himself to handle the arrangements, but before Will can protest, Hannibal actually catches himself and stops. Instead, he sorts out the technicalities, explaining how best to go about it, that a makeshift notch would have to be made in order for the belt's loop to be secure. It makes sense and Will listens carefully, only slightly irritated that Hannibal has seen fit to involve himself in the implementation. He has to remind himself that Hannibal would never be completely docile. Hannibal isn't submissive by nature - his mind always going - it's more instinctive for Hannibal to want to take charge and ensure any problems are taken care of.

"Thank you for staying put," Will says with a bit of a wry smile. He knows his instructions haven't been the most clear and yet Hannibal is still trying for him. It means more than a simple thank you can address. He strokes Hannibal's hair, letting his fingers curl and pull on Hannibal's hair as he shifts his focus to the nightstand.

"I like your hair longer like this, looks nice," he comments while flicking on the lamp with this other hand. Will increases his grip - just enough for a bit of a sting - before easing his hold and combing his fingers through. Hannibal's hair is a little longer than when they first met. Will prefers it this way compared to the style and length Hannibal had coming out of the BSHCI. He has no idea if Hannibal likes his hair shorter or what, but he's planning on asking sometime (Will kind of likes it longer so it can cover his scar). He opens the drawer and carefully pulls out the scalpel. That something so small and light could cause flesh to part sends a shiver down Will's spine. He looks between the belt and the scalpel, suddenly unsure if he's the best person to be managing sharp tools.

"Would you mind doing it for me, actually? Fitting it, creating the notch… [S'il te plaît](Please.)."

Maybe it doesn't bode well that he's searching out Hannibal's help. Maybe he should be bothered that he needs help or is unsure, but fuck it. He doesn't want to mess this up and Hannibal has more experience with handling a scalpel than he does. He doesn't want to slice a finger and ruin the entire moment. So, he'll suck it up and let Hannibal assist.

* * *

The soft note of thanks is all Hannibal needs to know he'd done the right thing in staying put. This is a new state of being for the both of them. Hannibal is not a man to submit willingly and Will is not a man who's ever been gifted full control. This is something they will learn together, and something to adapt to suit their own needs. Even if Hannibal is still breathless with the lingering shocks of pleasure, he's willing to let Will decide where this goes. If Will wishes him to wear a belt, he will.

The soft stroke of Will's fingers through his hair does catch him off guard, but pleasantly so. Hannibal stills. For a moment he's caught between retaining his control simply because they do need to sort out the belt if Will's plan is to come to any sort of fruition, but he recognizes the slide of fingers through his hair for what it is. It's... comfort, relaxation, an acknowledgement of a job well done. Instead of finding it belittling, Hannibal allows his mind to drift back towards relaxation. Will's fingers feel good in his hair, and just as good when Will pulls. Hannibal hums a soft note under his breath, toneless but pleased. But even that fades away to something that feels like a shiver across his skin when Will gives the soft compliment.

Hannibal's not expecting it. It's small, hardly anything to speak of, but Will is not a man to be overly sentimental. When he does comment on something, it's because he means it, and Hannibal feels a small ripple of pleasure slide through him at the knowledge. He hums again, softer this time, even as Will's grip tightens in his hair. "Thank you, Will," he says quietly, and then turns away from the light in the room as it flickers on. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust, but once they do (and the sound of the drawer being opened and a metallic click signal the scalpel's arrival) Hannibal allows himself to relax again. Or he starts to. That Will asks him to take care of the belt _is_ a slight surprise, but after a moment to consider, Hannibal merely smiles.

"Of course," Hannibal says, and after a moment in which he considers staying put, he decides against it. "Forgive me. It's safer if I don't remain in this position while cutting." Shooting Will a vaguely apologetic look, Hannibal presses his hands to the bed and levers himself up, sitting back on his heels. He feels pleased, actually, that Will is seeking out his help. Perhaps it isn't standard practice, but it's an acknowledgement that this is something Hannibal is allowing, not who he is. As such, Hannibal keeps his gaze averted as he takes the belt from Will's hands. He makes a point to brush his fingers over Will's - both upon taking the belt and the scalpel - and then sets the scalpel down on one of the pillows when he moves to take his measurements.

Hannibal loops the belt around his neck loosely and fits the end tip through the buckle, drawing it closed until he can feel leather encircling his neck. Perhaps he takes a moment to indulge, allowing Will to see the result he wishes, and then he reaches up and works it looser. He checks with his fingers against his throat, waiting until he can comfortably fit two under, then nods. Marking his place with his other hand, Hannibal works the belt loose and then takes the scalpel. He's careful with it, marking the place, and within ten seconds, the sharp tip has bitten out a small hole in the belt. Hannibal tests that it will actually work, then nods and leans over to put the scalpel back in the drawer, turning back (away from the window) in order to hand Will the belt.

"That should suffice," he says simply, and leans back down, settling himself back into his earlier position without needing to be told.

* * *

Will doesn't think he compliments Hannibal nearly enough. He probably should. Hannibal certainly deserves it (who's he kidding, Hannibal deserves a lot more than words). He can kiss him easily enough, can walk up next to him in the kitchen and place a hand on Hannibal's lower back, but somehow Will opening his mouth and expressing kindness? Admitting that he fucking loves Hannibal (of course he does). Will struggles with it.

Hannibal isn't antagonistic about Will seeking his help and Will is grateful for this. Hannibal, if feeling petty, could have easily pointed out the obvious discrepancy between asserting dominance and asking for help, but he doesn't. He's gracious. Of course he's gracious. When Hannibal's fingers brush over his hand, the touch is so achingly familiar - a show of reciprocated comfort - that Will has to swallow down the words that want to come out.

Will is quiet, watching Hannibal work through each step fashioning the belt into what Will wishes it to be. He doesn't want to be quiet, it's just that he has too much that might rush out of his mouth were he to open it. It's all sentimental - that he feels privileged that Hannibal trusts him enough to try this (all of it), that they can forgo sex at any point if Hannibal would like to talk, that he wants to be stable and supportive like Hannibal is with him...

And then the belt is being handed to him and Hannibal resumes his earlier position with no prompt from Will. "Thanks... Thank you," he mumbles, feeling a bit floored at how fucking good it feels to see Hannibal submitting to him. Will pushes past his awe and pushes himself to focus. His hands, thankfully, don't shake as he secures the belt around Hannibal's neck, the buckle's prong fitting tightly into the makeshift hole.

"One day I'll get you a real collar," Will suddenly says as he rotates it around so the remaining length of the belt - the part that will serve as a leash - is at the back of Hannibal's neck. "What do you think about that, baby? Would you wear it?" He shuffles behind Hannibal, hand gripping the edge of the belt tightly.

* * *

Will's sentiment is subtle but Hannibal can read it in his silence. While Hannibal has been forthcoming with his feelings when prompted, Will has not. He doesn't fault him for this. What use are words when Hannibal knows? He'd known the moment Will looked at him with such blatant awe the first time they were truly intimate, with Hannibal gripping Will tightly and Will a weight atop him. Words have their place. Words have power. Silence also has its own unique power, however. Will is silent and respectful as Hannibal works and it's a mutual acknowledgement that this is something they're sharing. Hannibal _could_ wrest control back and Will _could_ turn away (though he hasn't done this in some time) but through mutual respect, they choose not to. The sentiment is what truly chases those horrid shadows away, what truly tones them down. When Hannibal settles back on his forearms and breathes in Will's scent from the pillow, it's Will's favor that truly helps him relax.

Will thanks him and Hannibal hums an acknowledgement. Perhaps this moment is not charged and passionate as others, but it speaks of a greater comfort that Hannibal cherishes. He lifts his head when Will reaches the belt around his throat and he stays still as Will buckles it, allowing Will this moment. Even Hannibal can feel the difference when it's _Will's_ hands against his throat. He swallows and feels the weight of the belt and decides that under Will's hands, he enjoys it.

He enjoys the slight pressure against his throat even more, though nothing tops the way Will sounds when he speaks. He sounds blessedly awed, perhaps a little breathless, and while the thought of a collar - of ownership - comes as a surprise... does it really? Hadn't they had that conversation? Hannibal remembers bitterly and honestly asking Will if he wanted Hannibal to wear his collar. It had been metaphorical at the time but now that Hannibal is thinking about it, about what a collar might entail, the shiver that slides through him is not all arousal. He draws in a small breath and after a moment, he nods, feeling the padded leather against his throat. Both he and Will know too much about each other to ever think a collar would _only_ be sexual. It's a statement of possession, of care, and it's the closest Will has ever come to saying the words.

Words have power, but sometimes actions do speak louder.

"Yes," Hannibal says, for while the reality would take some getting used to, he has already been marked irreparably by Will. He is already wearing Will's scars. "Yes, I would wear your collar. You already have me, Will." He leans into the pull of the belt just enough to feel it and while it does bring back certain memories, it brings back memories of Will's hands at his throat far more. It's settling, in a way.

* * *

Will's never worn a collar. He's been restrained, both legally and illegally, and of course he hadn't liked it. Handcuffs, straight jackets, restraint masks... Yeah, he's had enough of that. (...But if it was Hannibal securing whatever restraint? Hannibal asking for a show of trust? Maybe he's not so done with it.) However, a collar is more than a mere restraint. It denotes a status, it's a symbol of ownership and possession, like a wedding ring, but perhaps far more significant in ways. He has no idea what Hannibal did with his actual ring, but he's not concerned over it. Will's hand is free of the plain band and as much as it has bothered him that Hannibal had waited so long, what's done is done.

He used to think Hannibal was a monster, all teeth and claws with a longing to torment. It seems absurd now as he sees the belt firmly attached around Hannibal's neck, as he once again takes in the sight of Hannibal on his knees and forearms waiting for him - obeying him. Will finds himself unable to look away, captivated by the image Hannibal makes. It hardly seems possible given the man Hannibal is, and he doubts he'll ever get used to it. (They both are merely flawed men who house monsters within - not identical - but surely of the same breed. This is what Will believes.)

When Hannibal nods, the leash moves as well, wavering slightly. Without taking his eyes off Hannibal, Will's other hand tries to find the bottle of lube, patting around the bed next to him (it takes him a few tries). Eventually he succeeds and his fingers close around the familiar bottle as he lifts it up and tries to get the cap off with only one hand. It becomes more difficult when he hears, ' _Yes, I would wear your collar. You already have me, Will.'_ He curses under his breath.

"[Oui... Je t'ai](Yes.%20I%20have%20you)," Will murmurs back. _(Yes. I have you.)_ They have each other, even though Will doesn't say it and Hannibal doesn't assert any claim. It's another known but unspoken thing between them.

"You look so nice like this, Hannibal. Really hot... Just waiting for me to fuck you." Will comments. He's trying to remain composed, but there's an edge of nervous excitement present in his voice. How could there not be? Regretfully he has to let go off the belt a moment to lube up his cock, but he makes quick work of it. His slicked up hand rubs a generous portion of lubricant between Hannibal's crack before pushing more inside by way of his thumb.He pumps in only a few times before withdrawing and taking his cock in hand while pressing closer, wedging it in between Hannibal's slicked up cheeks. Will rubs the tip of his dick against Hannibal's hole and shudders.

"I want to fuck you without a condom, is that okay?"

* * *

The belt is soft leather but the sensation is still new compared to the last few years. It's unfamiliar and the edges are designed specifically for fabric. There's a mild bite to one edge against Hannibal's throat but it isn't too unpleasant, merely sharp. It's grounding, a reminder that the belt is there and that Will apparently wishes him to be wearing something far different. He swallows and feels the gentle movement and every time Will adjusts his hold, Hannibal closes his eyes and focuses on the pressure, on the movement he can feel. It's more comforting than he'd imagined, though this isn't something he _needs_. Will's favor is another matter altogether, and Hannibal can feel Will's attention, can feel his gaze like the touch of his hand. He relaxes into it, a flicker of a smile landing on his lips when Will curses softly.

The smile only grows when Will speaks. The French is reassuring, the English flattering, and Hannibal shifts in his position, shivering faintly at the spoken reminder of what Will has in store. He can hear the nervousness in Will's voice, can hear his excitement, and Hannibal wets his lips as Will finally drops the belt in order to grab the lube. Hannibal doesn't complain, merely waiting and listening, enjoying the soft, wet sound of Will slicking himself up. While he does recall Will had only used two fingers, he _had_ been pressed back against them for quite some time. It'll be rougher and Hannibal will be able to feel more, but perhaps that is what Will wants.

He's not expecting the sudden press to his skin, and he's not expecting the feeling of Will's thumb sliding into him. It's quick and he draws in a sharp breath but immediately shivers, easing his knees further apart to make it easier for Will. Each gentle press of his thumb sends sensation through him, a reminder that his cock is still hard and that Hannibal still wants this. He wets his lips again (futile considering his slightly quicker breaths dry them out again in seconds) and when Will slides his thumb out only to replace it with the hot press of his cock, Hannibal breathes out a soft sound and then pauses. Will's not wearing...

No. Will's not wearing a condom, something that is confirmed on Will's next breath. Hannibal hesitates, not uncertain, merely thoughtful. This, like every other question Will asks him, is worth thinking about. The only problem is that the steady, slow rub of Will's cock against his skin is distracting. Whether or not it will be a little uncomfortable to start, Hannibal wants this. He swallows and then nods again. They have both shared bodily fluids in the form of blood and saliva and semen. There's hardly a need now, and Hannibal enjoys the thought of being able to feel Will so intimately.

"Yes, Will," he breathes, and for a moment he simply aches to reach back, to touch Will in any way. His hands clench in the pillow instead and Hannibal breathes out slowly, forcing his body to relax. He only rocks back once, not enough to urge Will inside, merely enough to feel him, and he hums low in the back of his throat. "I would like to feel you as you are. Would you touch me?" He adds after a moment. "Or pick the belt back up?"

* * *

Another nod and a _yes_ has Will taking a deep breath in. (Closer, more - yes.) When Hannibal mentions the belt and asks for touch, Will pauses for a moment. So caught up in the press of his unsheathed dick to Hannibal's waiting entrance that his right hand isn't actually _doing_ anything productive. He knows that maintaining a connection is important to Hannibal, especially during this. Will would like to blame how easy it is to flounder and lose himself on them being in their honeymoon stage still, but Will doesn't fucking know. (And how long are honeymoon stages supposed to last for?) Maybe he just sucks at micromanaging... The word 'micromanaging' rings entirely of Hannibal and none of him. Well, they'll both have to deal with his hits and misses because they are in this together.

"Okay... Stay still for me," Will encourages, his right hand coming to Hannibal's hip, giving it a squeeze and then holding firmly as he edges himself forward. They didn't do as much prep - or at least not as much as they usually do - but it's enough. A copious amount of lube helps as Will pushes the flared head of his cock past that familiar tight ring of muscle. Without the barrier of the condom, Hannibal is scorching and almost painfully tight. It's a perfect mix and Will moans as he works his way carefully further in. He's breathing quick when he stops, not quite half way inside.

"This is fucking amazing, you feel amazing--" While he praises Hannibal, his hand slides from Hannibal's hip, down an ass cheek, his hamstrings, and comes to rub to the back of his calf. It's then he first feels some sort of disfigurement - a gnarled and jagged scar from what he can discern. His left hand wipes some of the leftover lubricant onto the towel next to him before grabbing onto the belt, tugging gently. Will glances down and tries to get better look at the scar. It's difficult given his position and the low lighting.

"Who did this to you?" Will drags his thumb down the scar. It's fairly significant - about four inches in length and it looks like it had been a rather crude tearing of some kind. While they have been naked, Will hasn't poured over every inch of Hannibal's skin a like a prized treasure map. Maybe he should have and then this wouldn't be happening now. He's not stupid. Will knows that _now_ isn't a great time to be inquiring on past injuries, but he'd been curious and the question slipped out. He strokes along the raised skin as he thrusts the entire way in and bottoms out.

"[Chrisse](Christ!) _!_ " is exclaimed under his breath. _(Christ!)_

* * *

The press of Will's hand is grounding and Hannibal focuses on it even as he feels Will press against him a little harder. He does as told and he stays still, breathing slow and even as Will gradually increases pressure. It isn't going to be the most comfortable at first but Hannibal doesn't care. Instead he merely lets his head hang, feeling the press of the leather against his throat as he bears down and feels Will begin to push inside. Hannibal's breath catches; regardless of how often they do this, he doubts he will ever truly get used to the pained pleasure and intimacy of that first push. It hurts but it's a low burn, pleasant, sending shocks of too-much-sensation through him. Hannibal's lips part on a soundless breath and he shivers, taken aback by how much hotter Will feels, how much more raw the moment is without the barrier between them.

When Will praises him and stops to give him time to adjust, Hannibal realizes he's been forgetting to breathe and so he draws in a sharp breath and lets it out on a soft, tight moan. "So... so do you," he replies, for this is not a moment to be awash in their dynamics. Like this, it's just Will and just him. It's just intimate and seeking and intense and _good_ , and Hannibal is caught in the moment, in nothing else existing except for Will. He distantly feels Will's hand sliding down his right leg and follows the path as his body struggles to adjust, muscles clenching intermittently and Hannibal forcing himself to relax and push back, to bow his back just so in a way he's never had to do before. The bite of the belt against his throat reminds him to pick his head back up and he swallows, Will undoubtedly able to feel the twitch of his throat against the belt.

"What?" Hannibal asks, perhaps understandably distracted, but he follows sensation around until he feels the drag of Will's thumb over his calf. Breathing hard, his body still struggling to adjust, Hannibal thinks back to what Will could be talking about. While the eventual answer sends a small bolt of irritation flaring through him (it had not been his most dignified moment, and it isn't something he particularly _enjoys_ remembering) this isn't something he wishes to keep secret. Breathing hard, still adjusting, Hannibal wets his lips and draws a small breath in order to answer but before he can, Will chooses that moment to suddenly thrust the rest of the way inside.

It doesn't _hurt_ , but it is a sudden increase of sensation and Hannibal groans sharply at the feeling, intensity sparking, his hands clutching tight at the pillow, and his body shuddering because Will is _deep_. It's dizzying and good despite the ache, despite the overwhelming sensation, and Hannibal considers simply focusing on _this_ instead, but Will had asked him a question. With Will's curse still on his mind, Hannibal shivers and clenches, feeling Will so deep and perfectly inside of him.

It makes the admission less irritating, though he does make a point to keep his voice perfectly level when he answers, "Jack." He refuses to say the name in the tight, strained voice his pleasure gifts him, but he cannot help his heavier breathing, nor the way he struggles to adjust. "In... in Florence. Let me-- give me a moment, please," he adds, as this sensation is intense and he needs to adjust to it.

* * *

It's likely too much, too fast, but Will's cock is snug and buried to the root and it makes no sense to pull out now. Heat coalesces with intense bliss and as much as he wants to perhaps take back his question (because why discuss it _now?_ ), Hannibal answers. Obvious effort is used in controlling his tone, in keeping pleasure away from it... Jack _._ Jack had done this to Hannibal. Jack had _hurt_ Hannibal. (Will's aware of the small scar on Hannibal's cheek, but its size is fairly inconsequential compared to this new discovery.)

Like the first flash of lightening announcing an oncoming storm, anger streaks through Will. He yanks on the makeshift leash while his previously wandering hand comes to grasp Hannibal's hip once more. This time it's for himself. His grip is tight; his grip on the leash is also tight, knuckles turning white. Will distantly registers Hannibal's request - to give him time to adjust - and Will says nothing. He's perfectly still while he tries to work through his conflicted feelings about this reveal.

Arousal and anger are the dominant emotions ruling him. It's an interesting mix that Will isn't quite sure what to do with. It still feels exquisite to be fully sheathed inside of Hannibal,, but now his mind is lighting up and he wonders if Hannibal had actually faced and fought Jack _seriously_. After all, Will knows how reckless Hannibal had been while on his little European getaway. After all, Hannibal had managed to beat Jack before and surely Hannibal had to have been expecting some backlash or confrontation. The notion that Jack could have _snuck up_ on Hannibal is absurd. (Will doesn't want to think of Hannibal being brought that low. Yes, Jack is a formidable opponent, but isn't Hannibal at the top of the food chain?)

"You going to let someone hurt you like that again, Hannibal?" Will grits out and grinds his hips. He's angry at Jack. He's angry at Hannibal. Will's also angry at himself for being angry to begin with. The hand on Hannibal's hip lifts off to scrape down Hannibal's spine nice and slow.

"The answer is fucking 'no.'" Will pulls back a little before his hips snap forward. "Only I get to hurt you. No one else." His ugly possessive side is rearing its head and if anything it spurs Will on to start fucking Hannibal with short quick thrusts.

* * *

Hannibal's focus narrows in on the stretch and the heat, how close Will is and the touch of his hand for those few seconds after his request. He breathes deeply, reminding himself to relax, to settle himself, but this is intense. Behind him, Will is quiet but he's also gone still and Hannibal knows his answer likely won't bring Will any measure of satisfaction. So when Hannibal feels the belt suddenly yank back against his throat, he makes a small sound, still trying to adjust, but his focus is immediately split between the intensity and the pressure at his throat. He lifts his head just enough to ensure he can breathe still and when Will's free hand closes over his hip, Hannibal can almost feel the bruises imprinting. It's rougher than they've become accustomed to but it's not unpleasant. It's just _more_.

Still, despite Will's anger (Hannibal can hear the sound of him breathing now and he knows the cadence to Will's angry breaths) he remains still. Hannibal doubts the anger is fully directed at him, unless of course Will is upset that Hannibal hadn't told him before. Right now parsing through motivations is difficult and the intensity and the _too much_ is fading into a pleasurable ache, into the connection Hannibal enjoys.

He doesn't give Will verbal permission, but perhaps Will is aware of his body relaxing, because he chooses that moment to move. It's a slow grind and given their positions, it's perfectly placed. Hannibal's breath hitches softly and a sound he intends to be too low to hear is ever so slightly louder due to the pressure against his throat. Will's cock grinds slow over his prostate and Hannibal shivers but his attention is only half on his own body, his own pleasure. The rest is on Will, and on the implication that Hannibal had _allowed_ Jack to injure him. "Will," Hannibal grinds out, a little breathless but also almost in warning. Before he can protest further (and oh, he intends to) Will's hand moves from his hip to Hannibal's back and sensation alights there. He grunts softly at the slow slide of Will's nails down his back, over the raised edges of scar tissue, leaving welts behind in their wake. Hannibal is not a masochist, but Will is his exception in many ways and the focused scratch makes his breath hitch.

It's possessive. That's what this is, Hannibal decides as Will speaks (' _The answer is fucking 'no'...'_ ) Will doesn't like the idea that anyone else has hurt him. _That_ Hannibal has been hurt doesn't seem to be a problem, but that _Will_ hadn't done it... interesting. Hannibal silently files it away, and then suddenly his observations hardly matter. Will draws back just a bit and then snaps his hips forward and Hannibal's breath catches on a soft gasp; this position definitely makes for a better angle. He fights the urge again to reach back, to touch Will's thigh, to hold him in some way and instead he clutches Will's pillow tighter, breathing in his scent.

"I don't... wish another to hurt me," he manages, and then groans, shuddering as Will begins to thrust. It's intense, and it feels _good_. Perhaps too good. "Only... only you have that right. That scar is... is hardly important."

* * *

The visual of Hannibal effectively collared and leashed is striking. It's an image that Will won't be forgetting, imprinted into his memory and likely material to whack off to while he's alone in the shower. He knows Hannibal is _his_ , they don't _need_ a ring or a collar, nevertheless, playing around with one is exhilarating. Will sees Hannibal adjust from the yank, raising his head to ease some of the strain and to make breathing easier. It's not a great idea to be dabbling with restraints while feeling volatile - Will knows that he should probably drop the belt and take a few minutes to calm himself down. Again, he proves he's a reckless man. Hannibal's body is another home for him, tight and hot around his cock, and Will can't pull away so, he doesn't.

Will doesn't want his attention split. Hannibal deserves his entire focus, his complete devotion and care in this moment, but Will knows he's not giving that, he's not doing what he needs to be doing. He hasn't forgotten that Hannibal had previously been plagued by a nightmare of some kind, shaken to the point where Will had actually been woken up. This is supposed to be _for_ Hannibal, to let them find pleasure and a distraction in each other, yet Will can't help but be pulled in other directions, anger and possessiveness warring and attempting to contend with the staggering intimacy and pleasure.

Because this _is_ an intimate moment. This is more than Hannibal allowing Will to fuck him in a compromising position. This is more than a belt serving as a collar and a leash. This is Hannibal _trusting him_. Hannibal, who struggles when he cannot see or touch Will, is pushing himself to try and bear it anyway. It's because of trust, but maybe love has more to do with it. Will wishes he could let himself fall into it, let that knowledge swallow him whole like the ocean had tried to do after they splashed into its icy embrace. But no...

Jack had hurt Hannibal. From what Will could make out, the scar looked like it had been made crudely too. Hannibal's right of course - the scar itself isn't important - it's merely another mark that illustrates the journeys their physical bodies have endured.

" _You're_ important to me... thus I'm asking," Will manages to get out, breathing quicker with exertion from his shallow thrusts. His hand comes back to Hannibal's waist and his nails bite out their hello. "Tu es à moi," Will growls, low, and not necessarily for Hannibal to hear. _(You're mine.)_ He repeats his claim as his hips punctuate each word. Will's thrusts aren't deep, but they're rough - rougher than he usually is. Hannibal will definitely be sore come the next day. It's not smart, it's not fair to Hannibal, but Will is too caught up in the swell of emotions to stop.

"How did he do it?" He asks suddenly and his hips still to give Hannibal and himself a break.

* * *

Will wrestles with 'should' and 'could' as his hips move. He struggles with what he _should_ be doing given the intimacy of the moment, with what he knows Hannibal would be doing were their positions reversed, but Hannibal isn't so fixated on technique. He doesn't expect the same from Will because Will isn't him. He has his moments of startling intimacy and care, but Will Graham is a far more reckless man than even Hannibal is, driven primarily by his emotions. Given the note of possessiveness in his voice, Hannibal isn't expecting as much care so he doesn't mourn it when each snap of Will's hips is rough. He moves quickly, with shallow thrusts that have Hannibal's hands clenching in Will's pillow. While the scar is still apparently a concern, Hannibal doesn't focus on it as much, caught up in the sensation of Will's warmth, the aching pleasure and discomfort, and the tight bite of nails against his waist.

He wonders for a moment if Will is aware that each thrust is so perfectly aimed, that every time he punctuates a word with a thrust, Hannibal's breath stutters and his brow furrows, chasing that need. He'll be sore tomorrow and he hardly cares, as this - though clearly not Will's intention - is actually helping on top of the pleasure. The discomfort is grounding but Will's proximity is even more important. More than that are the words - darker, possessive, claiming - and Hannibal groans lowly in the back of his throat as Will _takes_.

The bite of leather against his throat is a constant reminder of the lingering danger and Hannibal alternates between leaning into it and easing its press against his throat. His impulse is to let his head hang, to press his forehead to the pillow and push back like he had when Will had wished him to ride his fingers at his own pace, but the belt around his throat makes it difficult. He forgets himself only twice, his voice breaking and hitched on Will's name as the belt bites into his throat and he loses himself in the pleasure of each thrust, his cock beading and leaking precome at its head from every moment of stimulation.

The question is sudden when Will's hips still, giving the both of them time to come back down, but it takes Hannibal a few moments to gather his thoughts enough to remember what Will is asking him about. _How did he do it?_ The scars. How did Jack give him the scar. Hannibal lets out a breath - sounding almost punched-out as he lets his head drop forward on the pillow to catch his breath. He aches for Will to move but he also appreciates the break. There's a part of him that doesn't wish to say anything, but if it's between Will asking about nightmares and Will asking about his altercation with Jack, Hannibal knows which he can handle. He wets his lips, and his voice is slightly breathless when he finally answers.

"It was... a meat hook, I believe. The Palazzo Capponi - where I found work - had a torture exhibit." Hannibal takes a slow breath, for this feels uncomfortable to mention while so intimate. Again, he takes care not to let his tone hold any trace of his pleasure. "I was thrown into a display case and disarmed. I was... on the floor at the time, trying to reach a weapon, and he sunk the meat hook into my calf and dragged me back across the floor. It took some time to free it."

* * *

The room is bathed in the soft warm glow of the lamp light. As tonight the moon is playing coy and hiding behind clouds, there's not much light coming from the window. Hannibal's hair looks a little damp, but also soft. He can make out a thin sheen of sweat on Hannibal's skin and Will wants to lick up his spine, from his coccyx to the nape of Hannibal's neck, taste what he's worked out of Hannibal. Nothing else feels soft in this moment for Will. The leather feels substantial and unforgiving in his hand and Hannibal's neck is likely going to be decorated after this activity. Will's possessiveness and anger feel hard, like calluses upon calluses from years of work.

(He's been soft before, yes, brushing a hand through Hannibal's hair lovingly... Holding his hand, holding _him..._ Will's kissed Hannibal slowly and let Hannibal steal his breath away, but now he feels hardened like granite.)

He isn't answered immediately and Will feels a flash of annoyance; his nails dig into flesh. Will forces himself to take a steadying breath; he inhales and holds for a count of five seconds before exhaling slowly. He knows he's being irrational, but it doesn't help. If anything, he's _more_ irritated knowing it. The pleasure of having his cock buried deep in Hannibal is incomparable, but it's layered amidst course edges of jealousy and possessiveness, creating a rather interesting mix.

When Hannibal speaks, Will listens, motionless. A meat hook... Torture exhibit... Dragged along the floor... (Will can picture it - Jack, resourceful as ever - having the upper-hand and bringing the weapon down into Hannibal's calf... its hooks tearing into flesh as he pulled Hannibal along the floor.) He shakes his head and licks his lips a few times, considering. It's impulse that gets him to drop the leash. Will leans over, resting some of his weight on Hannibal's back as his hands come to the side's of the collar. His fingers curl underneath it and he grips hard. In this position, he's shifted impossibly deeper but he can't get good leverage to actually fuck Hannibal. Will doesn't care.

"I'll kill anyone who dares to hurt you," Will hisses and begins to hump at Hannibal. (Sometimes sex is animalistic.) It should probably bother him how easy the words slip out, but it doesn't. Morality holds less sway when it comes to someone hurting Hannibal Lecter, apparently. "I'll fucking kill them, Hannibal." It seems they've returned to a point where murder mingles with the pursuit of desire.

* * *

Will gives no overt reaction as Hannibal speaks, keeping himself perfectly still. The memory is unpleasant for a number of reasons but ultimately two stand out. First, because Jack had managed to injure him so completely, and second because as it had been happening, Hannibal had made the conscious choice not to fight back. Even now the memory burns. That, as always, is what Will Graham does to him. His presence and his favor are food and water, and his touch and mind are sleep and comfort. After months in Florence, Hannibal had been as reckless as a man deprived of the basic building blocks of survival. That he'd considered merely allowing Jack his victory isn't surprising, but the memory is one Hannibal wishes to fight against.

Before Hannibal's thoughts can drift too far from his current situation (outside of the darker slide of his thoughts, his body is still very interested and wanting) the slack on the belt suddenly increases. Hannibal shifts enough to turn his head, trying to look back over his shoulder, but then the weight against him increases and thoughts of Jack Crawford crawl back into their shadows in favor of the soft, hitched sound that drags itself from his throat when Will presses impossibly deeper. He spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate him and shudders, for Will has never been so close before. The lingering memories of being without him are replaced by the deep press of his cock, and the memories of how bleak and empty that time had been are replaced by Will's fingers curling into the sides of the belt forming his makeshift collar. Will grips - _hard_ \- and Hannibal tests how restricted his breathing feels for only a moment before deeming it acceptable. He braces himself harder to support Will's weight but he doesn't miss the possessiveness in Will's hold. It's thrilling in its intimacy.

Will's voice is what wraps around him like a snake, coiled and constricting but going no further than that. The inelegant push of his hips and the accidental, almost animalistic grind of Will's hips steals Hannibal's breath away with its intensity, but even that pales in the face of Will's promise. It's hissed, bordering on feral, and Hannibal feels a deep shudder work its way through him as he swallows. He can feel the backs of Will's fingers against his pulse and he notes the vaguely lightheaded feeling that creeps up but doesn't reach a dangerous level. It merely hovers, constant, forcing his attention to linger on Will alone, and Hannibal's breathing quickens. He twitches and shifts minutely at the pleasure building inside, for he'd been nearing his first edge when Will had eased his fingers out earlier. This - Will's presence, his touch, his mind, _and_ his favor topped with vicious, possessive promises - has Hannibal groaning, the sound lower but tight in his throat.

He doesn't know he's close until Will adds in that last hissed promise, (' _I'll fucking kill them, Hannibal.'_ ) and then he feels the pointed gathering of heat, the telltale tightness, and realizes his cock is likely flushed red with arousal. The intensity, the intimacy - all of it - are taking their toll, and with how _deep_ Will is, with how accidentally fixated on Hannibal's pleasure each thrust is, Hannibal draws in a sharp breath of warning and fights the urge to reach back.

"Will," Hannibal says, his voice strained but urgent as he shifts, attempting to change the angle just enough so that he can come back down from the approaching edge. "I know. I know you would; I...I would gladly watch you do it, but I'm close. You need to wait."

* * *

Will could push for details, demand clarification, but he doesn't. He has already commented on Hannibal's recklessness while assuming Dr. Fell's identity and gallivanting around Europe with Bedelia. Will can only surmise that recklessness played a part in the altercation with Jack. The knowledge that Hannibal, in any way, hadn't fought back to the best of his ability infuriates Will. So much so that he can't even deal with it now, won't speak on it - it will be for another time. (Maybe they need to have their own altercation.)

_'... You need to wait.'_

"Pardon? I don't need to do shit, Hannibal," Will spits back. He's not interested in drawing this out for Hannibal. Let Hannibal's climax claim him like Will has - from the collar, the leash, each scar, each mark, each bruise that he's had a part in - Hannibal is _his_. He doesn't wait. He doesn't still. Will pushes. He _takes._ He yanks on the collar, his fingers wet with sweat. He kisses along Hannibal's trapezius muscle, a feast of flesh before him. Will's hips continue, bucking forward relentlessly, persistent, nudging inside and wanting Hannibal to really _feel him_. The sound of skin on skin is perverse, but fitting.

If he could, if he was able, he'd want to dissolve into Hannibal, to sink into every pore. Let no single cell remain the same because of his presence. Will wants Hannibal to forever be altered, to unleash cellular processes that can't be stopped. Hannibal must be his in every possible way. Why stop at the heart, Will needs it written in Hannibal's very DNA. Let everything Hannibal experiences - his sight, taste, touch, hearing - be tinged with him, tainted in Will Graham.

"You're going to take it, just like a bitch in heat," Will asserts in between his own grunts of pleasure. It's vulgar; it's something he'd maybe _think_ but never vocalize. Until now. (He's always been the reckless one.) His voice softens slightly as he adds, "Just come for me, baby. Let yourself."

* * *

With every shift of Will's hips, every tug at the belt, Hannibal can feel himself getting closer. He does try to forestall it, particularly as even if the claim had been made months ago, Will is still the one to control his pleasure. Will had told him not to come unless he'd told Hannibal to and Hannibal has heeded that command. It isn't always verbal - a nod, a quicker hand, Will not pulling away when his mouth had been around Hannibal's cock - but Hannibal waits for it regardless of how difficult it can be. This moment, with his air slightly restricted, Will's weight pressing him down, and Will's cock dragging with sinful perfection over his prostate, his warning is mostly desperation. He expects Will to stop, to draw back and hold on until he can calm himself back down.

It's not what happens. Instead Will pushes, his voice tight with anger (at Jack, or at Hannibal, not even he knows) and it's like his warning has redoubled Will's efforts. Hannibal's breathing turns rougher and ragged as Will yanks on the belt, dragging back on it until his back bows a little to equalize the pressure on his throat. His neck is growing slightly raw under the belt but the near-pain of it only adds to Hannibal's pleasure. It's violent in a way Will hasn't been in some time and it speaks of possession. Perhaps Will is angry at the situation but swaddled in his anger is the care he's been slowly cultivating over the last few months - perhaps the last few years. Hannibal feels the rough kisses pressed to his skin, feels and hears each slap of skin on skin and Hannibal moans roughly under his breath, hands gripping and clenching the pillow in desperation. He aches to touch himself but he keeps his hands exactly where Will had told him to.

Hannibal suspects that Will _likes_ knowing how desperate he can become, that he can come from this alone if he's in the right frame of mind. Struggling to maintain his control instead, Hannibal feels the deep, telltale ache all through him, feels the tight clench of need, and he's ready to mentally put himself above this moment in order to to keep control when Will adds on what he does. His initial comment is jarring and the words twist indignation and an odd heat through him. Hannibal's lip curls in a would-be-snarl but he can't quite get the words out past the tight press of the belt. The comment does as intended though, it brings him right back to the forefront of this moment, so when Will's voice softens - when he murmurs a slightly kinder permission - Hannibal chokes, a soft sound in the back of his throat, unabashed, and does as told. He lets go.

Pleasure crashes over him in a wave as he comes with a strangled gasp. His pulse is quick against Will's fingers as he jerks, as he tenses and presses back to desperately meet each perfect roll of Will's hips. It's inelegant and intense, Will's words lingering in his mind, the belt feeling tight around his throat, but Hannibal hardly cares. It's deep and satisfying and he shakes as come streaks over the fabric under him and he loses himself in the intensity.

* * *

In this heated moment where desire and acrimony blend, Will is somewhat lost in the sheer rawness of it all. He's not exactly paying attention to whether this position or his grasping fingers pulling on the collar are too restricting on Hannibal's breathing. (Yes, they have safewords. This is what Will is going to placate himself with later. He would have stopped at hearing _Kairos_ , right?) He's ravenous like the wendigo, hungry like a wolf gone too long without a meal and so Will keeps on taking.

Hannibal has never brought up the issue of Will's command those many months ago. They've simply continued to operate with Hannibal needing permission to come. Tonight is no different. On some level Will can sense Hannibal trying to pull back. He does understand that the demand for _him_ to wait was actually a plea, that Hannibal had wanted time to gather himself back up, to find any scraps of control and cling into them.

(But Will _wants_ him in pieces. With his touch and with his words, he wants to shatter Hannibal, for Hannibal to be broken into hundreds of shards at his feet. And it will be him that collects each and every precious jagged piece and when Will looks, he will see himself reflected back...)

Violence was more common in the beginning, when Will couldn't stomach his desires and he was plagued by guilt and drowning in frustration. Violence allowed them to find other ways to connect, it provided Will a means to deal with his conflicted feelings and still reach out to touch or, in some cases, ask even. Courtesy of the possessive streak, there's a violence within Will that's making a reappearance. His actions and words are sharp.

(He continues to _take._ )

He may not be extremely observant right now, but it hasn't escaped Will how much more _vocal_ Hannibal has been since he starting getting possessive. Will isn't taken back by this realization, if anything it pushes him on, encouraging his bad behavior in the worst possible way. He knows Hannibal is able to come like without having his dick touched, it merely takes insistence and Hannibal _letting_ himself. They've tried it once, although the pace was much slower.

But Hannibal does let himself and Will's eyes slip shut as he hears his lover come undone. Against his fingers he can feel that strong pulse elevated. Hannibal tenses and Will groans, suddenly closer than he anticipated. " _Fuck_ ," Will curses and rubs his stubble against Hannibal's shoulder.

"That's my Good Boy." Will shudders as he lets go of the collar, one hand grabbing into the leash part as he straightens up again so he can actually get some momentum in his thrusts

* * *

Pleasure arcs through Hannibal's body like electricity, jarring and sudden and hot, and for those few perfect seconds, the rest of the world is gone. It's just Will, just his heat, just the touch of his fingers and the brush of his stubble, just the press of his body and the tight snap of his hips that eclipse Hannibal's mind. His nightmare is gone, the scars are gone. Everything is just a tight, hot pleasure that has him twitching, has his knuckles white as he grips the pillow and his body clenching reflexively around Will's cock. It's intense, Hannibal's breathing ragged, and the soft curse so close to his ear draws an answering groan from Hannibal's throat. He feels the scratch of Will's stubble against his shoulder, feels the stark reminder that this is _him_ , and Hannibal shudders as pleasure gives way to a pronounced sensitivity. Every touch is sensitive, from the scratch of stubble to the brush of Will's hands.

He almost misses the added praise - the soft 'Good Boy' - but it lingers on the corner of his mind, curious in its newness. That Will draws back just enough to grab the leash-end of the belt merely drives the words home and Hannibal makes a silent mental note to ask him about it later. Right now the words won't form and Hannibal is far more distracted by the press of Will's body, by the way he levers himself up and the sudden tug back on the belt around his throat.

The first few grinds of Will's hips only feel good as Hannibal sluggishly lifts himself up on his forearms to negate the pressure against his throat. He presses back, seeking, wishing only for Will to find the same pleasure he'd forced, but as Will braces himself and starts to thrust properly, Hannibal hisses unbidden. The first glancing thrust against his prostate sends a frisson of sensitivity through him, good but sharp, bordering on unpleasant. The second follows suit. Hannibal understands the mechanics of it, knows the _why_ behind over-sensitivity after orgasm, but it doesn't spare him from the curl of pleasure that's too much. While he doesn't curse, he does groan tighter, torn between asking for a brief reprieve and simply pushing back.

He does the latter, bracing himself properly to take each harder thrust, but the added sensitivity is intense. "Will," Hannibal hisses, perhaps a plea or perhaps simply to ground himself, but it quickly nears the edge of over-stimulation. It's not enough to safeword; Hannibal has no desire to _stop_ , but he does edge forwards just a little, trying to change the angle to lessen the sharpness of this new pleasure. It's good; he enjoys the sensation, but it makes him sting with sensitivity.

* * *

Hannibal has done well - just as he'd ordered. Will is pleased, accomplished even, but not sated. He's ruthless in fucking into Hannibal, hips snapping back to thrust greedily into the hot clench of Hannibal's body. (It's another sort of home.) He can feel and see Hannibal push back against him and Will can't help but moan. He knows that it's difficult to do much after an orgasm so he appreciates the effort on Hannibal's part. (But of course Hannibal would push himself - no rest for the wicked, his mind supplies.)

Will pulls back further, watching as his cock slides out of Hannibal's hole only to disappear as he pumps forward. No condom is definitely better. Much, much better actually. His other hand once again comes to the dip in Hannibal's waist, holding him steady. Unlike Hannibal, Will is clueless on the issue of overstimulation. He's never had his prostate directly played with and he's never continued fingering or fucking Hannibal once he'd climaxed. Until now.

He hears his name said with a note of desperation in Hannibal's voice. It sends a delicious shiver down his spine, but he knows what he needs to do. "[Ça va](It's%20okay.)," he says, but he doesn't slow down. "[Tu vas bien](You're%20okay.)." ( _It's okay. You're okay_.) It's all Will can offer in this moment for encouragement.

It becomes _not_ okay when Hannibal tries to ease himself away. Will yanks roughly on the leash and inches forward, closing any distance Hannibal tried to create.

"Don't you dare move away, baby," Will warns. "I'm close. Just hang on. Stay with me." He feels a bit like a man possessed, focused and crazed. (He sees himself attacking Jack, giving him the same treatment, dragging him around until flesh and muscles tear from unforgiving hooks... Will also sees himself punching Hannibal in his perfectly impassive face shrieking, ' _fight back_!' until his knuckles are bloody.)

Each thrust Will thinks _'mine'_ and he gives no warning before he comes deep inside of Hannibal, cock pulsating and claiming Hannibal in this new way. Will shakes and curses under his breath as he keeps himself buried inside, panting as pleasure floods through him. He stares at the Verger brand on Hannibal's back before his eyes travel up the length of the belt to the point where it connects to the makeshift collar.

* * *

The tug to the belt is sudden and sharp and Hannibal's attention has drifted just enough for the sudden increase of pressure to catch him off guard. The tug does hurt, does cut his air off completely for a moment until he gets his arms under him and forces himself up to alleviate the pressure. His throat will be rubbed raw after this and he anticipates a deeply marked bruise etched into his skin. Through the haze of lingering pleasure and forced, pleasured overstimulation from Will's hips snapping forward, Hannibal still shudders, for while this _is_ too much, it's not unpleasant enough to stop. Instead a soft sound - tight and struggling - escapes his throat as Will yanks him back and edges closer, closing the distance Hannibal had put between them. For all the discomfort, it does feel good, just a sharp, curved pleasure.

Knowing and hearing that Will is close makes it easier. His desire to give Will pleasure overshadows his own discomfort and Hannibal shudders through every snap of Will's hips. His breathing is ragged past the press of the belt but Hannibal does as Will had told him to do. He doesn't _dare_ move away, and he stays with Will, physically and mentally. Hannibal fights past the overstimulation to instead hear every sound, every slap of skin on skin. Will's thrusts begin to lose their rhythm in what is likely no time but feels like an eternity, and Will is not the only one who shakes when his hips snap harder and harder and then he buries his cock deep in Hannibal's body as he twitches and curses in pleasure.

Hannibal feels the tight press of warmth, feels the stinging pleasure, and keeps himself still and panting as Will loses himself in his own pleasure. Hannibal shivers, his grip so tight in the sheets that they look like they're threatening to tear. His muscles are sore from tension but he feels boneless. Between his legs, his cock finally stops leaking extra drops of come from Will's pointed attention to his prostate, and Hannibal groans lowly as he finally allows himself to start to relax.

His muscles tremble with the effort of holding himself up but he remains precisely where he is for as long as he can. It's only when the belt continues to bite into his throat that he decides he needs to collapse forwards but he still doesn't do so unbidden.

"Will," Hannibal says, and his voice sounds breathless and raw, "I... I need a moment."

* * *

Will, once again, is impressed with Hannibal withstanding the near assault. He eases his hold on the leash and then a moment later decides he's done with it and drops it to the side. Pleasure streaks through him, consuming and sharp. He can smell blood on the air, taste violence in his mouth. (They're missing moonlight...) It should be disturbing on some level, but it simply enhances the moment. Fucking and the desire to protect one's mate had to be primal instincts. Because yeah, Hannibal _is_ his mate. They may not be doing any reproducing, but the two of them are bonded in every way that counted.

Hannibal is full with his cock and come. The thought pleases Will. It's perverse, but he doesn't care. Hannibal sounds wrecked - undone - but beautiful. Will has no words to express his awe and thrill at what's played out. No words could accurately sum up the most erotic experience he's had to date. Hannibal submitting. The belt that was fashioned into a collar and a leash. The position. Everything Hannibal allowed him to say and do, everything that's transpired.

He can feel Hannibal shake with the strain of the position and Will smiles to himself, enjoying and observing the effect he's had on Hannibal. And when Hannibal speaks - his voice not composed in the least - Will's hands come to Hannibal's shoulders and he pushes him down.

"You can relax, but keep your ass up," he instructs.

Will pulls out of Hannibal's body. His softening cock is slick with lube and come, but Will doesn't make to dry it or Hannibal off. Instead, Will's left hand spreads the cheeks open for a better look. Hannibal's hole is stretched and glistening, remnants of come can be seen within. Will rubs a bit around the entrance before his index finger pushes inside and takes in the wetness within before pulling out. A thought hits him. He's never considered it before and yet it doesn't gross him out. His right hand joins his left, parting Hannibal further and leaning in. He licks up between Hannibal's cleft. It tastes mostly of lubricant, but Will persists until his tongue meets the puckered hole of Hannibal's. He laps at it, now being able to taste himself as well. Will presses his tongue against it with more pressure before circling the entrance with just the tip of his tongue.

* * *

The moment Will drops the belt, Hannibal allows himself the freedom to lower his head. He doesn't move his arms or his body beyond that, cares little for the way he trembles following Will's indulgence. He merely grabs hold of the permission to finally breathe unobstructed and fights to catch his breath. Will is the only man Hannibal would ever consider being in this position for. Not just sexually; Hannibal is not a man to deny himself pleasure in any form. But the submission, the allowance, pushing so far, some of the things Will had said... he'd have killed another for doing the same but he doesn't hold Will to those same standards. He never has.

Will's rougher breathing is music to Hannibal's ears. He drifts on that as he tries to catch his breath, and while part of him expects Will to deny his request, he isn't left disappointed. Hands come to his shoulders and Hannibal breathes out a soft sound as Will pushes him down. He doesn't need the force but Hannibal can appreciate it just the same. It's a firm reminder that while Hannibal is a strong man, Will is not _weak_. Will tells him how he wants him to stay and while Hannibal does inwardly question the command, he complies. He has no reason not to, and though his mind feels like piecemeal in the haze of afterglow, were their positions reversed and had he told Will to do the same thing, to remain in the same position, he knows what he would have been tempted to do.

As he'd suspected, he and Will are not so different. Just as Hannibal would have done, he feels Will slowly ease himself free. Hannibal draws in a slightly sharper breath at the sudden emptiness as he clenches on nothing but he feels no shame as Will's hand comes to his ass and spreads him open enough that he can look. Hannibal allows himself a low breath and doesn't protest, though he does hum a small sound at the first touch to his hole. His skin is sensitized now but he allows Will his exploration. He'd not worn a condom, and Hannibal isn't surprised when Will's finger slides inside (though he does breathe in sharply). He knows precisely what Will is doing, marveling at the mess he'd left, at the claim he'd left. Hannibal shivers but a smile is already hovering at the corner of his lips when Will spreads him wider.

He's _not_ expecting the sudden hot, wet press against his skin. It's not a sensation Hannibal is familiar with but he very quickly connects the dots as he feels Will seek out his hole, feels the hot breath of air, and the scratch of Will's stubble. Oh. Will's tongue. Will is... There's no masking the sharper gasp at the first lick over already-sensitive skin, and Hannibal's hands clench hard in the sheets.

" _Will,"_ he groans, and there's a roughness in his voice that he'd normally attempt to mask, yet in this instance he finds it nigh on impossible. It's more than just the sensation, than the pleasure. It's taboo, but more than that, it's _intimate._ It's also something he'd never expected Will to do. Hannibal's thought of indulging himself, in how Will might sound were he to taste him like this, but he'd never believed Will would do this. That it's being done _now_ is enough to make him shudder, muscles flexing and tensing at the oversensitivity but also at the desire to push back into it.

Hannibal hisses low between his teeth and each breath is even rougher.

"Will," he breaks off with a sound that might be a curse in another language, "let me touch you. Please."

* * *

While it's obviously not the first time Will's had sex without a condom, it's a first for them. His first time with Hannibal. So yes, he essentially wants Hannibal on display for him - ass still up while Hannibal rests his arms and neck. He's interested in seeing what kind of marks have been left on Hannibal's neck from the belt, but his claim (his come) left inside Hannibal's ass is more interesting. It should probably bother him on some level - to first feel his jizz squish around his finger - and then lick near some place considered dirty and filled with said jizz, but fuck it.

Will is riding high on lust and thoughts of violence, on possessiveness and Hannibal's submission. Why shouldn't debauchery follow? Why shouldn't he claim Hannibal like this as well? He knows Hannibal likely wants to do this to him. Hannibal would do this and more as soon as Will let him. All he has to to do is open his mouth and give permission. (Hannibal is collared and while Will, of course, wants to push he also feels a sense of awe at managing such a feat. Surely this kind of power demands respect and delicacy too?)

But he's not exactly delicate as he licks at Hannibal. Will has no finesse, just spurred by his own interest and an urge to keep Hannibal in the throes of _something_. Hannibal's reaction doesn't disappoint, a loud gasp followed by his name moaned out with more emotion than normal. Will can feel Hannibal struggle against the sensation - Will imagines it's very sensitive, but maybe ticklish? He doesn't know (but he'll find out someday, he's sure, Hannibal has quite the oral fixation after all). When the plea is voiced, he does pull away.

"Shh, not yet," Will murmurs, trying for a calming tone. "Not done with this yet... Not done with you yet." With that stated, Will wastes no time and returns to the task. His tongue laps against Hannibal's dripping hole. It's come mixed with lube - not especially tasty - but Will doesn't care. He likes feeling Hannibal shudder against him, likes feeling his muscles tense and hearing the rougher breathing. Will's tongue works at the rim insistently until he dares to press forward and push his tongue inside. With small flicks, he spears inside Hannibal's heat. He's going to be a mess after this with his head buried in Hannibal's ass, but he doesn't care. Hannibal is his sole focus. _His_.

* * *

Hannibal aches to reach back, to tangle his fingers in Will's hair and hold on. He doesn't even want it in order to keep Will in place, though he _does_ feel exquisite where he is, but he aches for the connection. Facing away from Will, not being allowed to touch... it's not necessarily something Hannibal tends to enjoy. Physically it can feel good but to deny him the sight of Will in pleasure, or the comfort of Will's immediate presence is often distressing. That Will had draped himself over Hannibal's back before had only been a comfort, but now, with Will's touch pinpoint and _good_ , Hannibal fights the urge to squirm and reach back anyway even after Will tries to soothe him.

The tone he uses does help and being under Will's focused attention is good, though bordering on too much. Following the overstimulation, it's a lot to focus on but if Will wishes to pursue this avenue, Hannibal doesn't have it in him to stop him, particularly considering how good it feels. It's all wet, focused heat, Will's tongue soothing and stimulating at once. Hannibal shifts, not to move away, not necessarily to push back, simply because the sensation calls for movement of some kind. His hands grip the sheets tightly, his breathing rougher, though the memory of Will's words soothe him. (' _Not done with this yet... Not done with you yet.'_ )

Warm-sharp sensations slide through his skin as Will's tongue laps slowly but thoroughly over his hole. He aches mildly from the force Will had used but the touch of Will's tongue does feel soothing. It also simply feels _good_ , and Hannibal cannot help the muffled sounds he makes. It's a sensation he suspects he might be able to come to; already he can feel the half-pleasure, half-painful frissons of sensation in his cock, though he's not yet hard. He suspects he could be and wonders idly if that is Will's intention. Then he doesn't wonder at all, his focus narrowed down to the single point of contact as Will suddenly presses closer. His tongue tenses and instead of licking, pushes _in._ Hannibal's hand finds the headboard of the bed, though not to grip. As a groan tears free of his throat, so too does his fist collide with the headboard. The sound isn't as loud as it could be, but given that he can't touch Will, the build up of sensation needs to come out somehow. Will's name tears itself roughly from his throat.

Hannibal's breathing is ragged as Will presses in deeper, as he tastes him so intimately. Thoughts of everything else vanish until it's just Will, just his touch, just his heat and the wet pleasure. Hannibal groans and despite the sharpness of sensation, he pushes back into it, seeking not _more_ but simply whatever Will wishes to give him.

* * *

Does Will know what he's doing? No. Does he have any goal in mind? Not really. Does he want to stop? Hell no. While he can sometimes get hard enough to come a second time, he's never tried to play around and wait out Hannibal's refractory period. If Hannibal can, that's more than fine, if not? That would be fine too. This is new and wholly intimate and _more_. It's his own heroin. Hannibal may make him a junkie yet.

This isn't exactly comfortable or pleasant. Will feels a little smothered, a little awkward with his face buried in between slick ass cheeks... but this is the man who had pulled him from the ocean and stitched up his wounds. Hannibal has endured much for him. Far too much. The fucking wedding band for months was Will's most recent offense... So, Will can tolerate this. He's going to be fine. He _is_ fine.

And Hannibal is _his_. When his tongue works it's way inside, Hannibal reacts almost violently, hitting the headboard with what must be a fist and groaning. Will's name follows shortly after. It's exciting to be evoking such strong responses from Hannibal who fights to keep quieter far too often. This here makes any of the awkwardness worth it; this is Will's reward.

Despite just being fucked, Hannibal feels tight, like he can't help but clench around the intimate exploration. Will doesn't know if it's intentional or not, he simply pushes further and licks around. He can taste evidence of his former claim (also unpleasant). When Will begins to thrust his tongue in and out, Hannibal pushes back a little. Will's moan surprises himself. Having Hannibal be into it definitely makes the whole eating Hannibal's ass out thing much better. Will persists, his tongue fucking shallowly inside Hannibal's hole. Come and spit has begun to drip out and Will finds the whole scenario delightfully perverse.

* * *

There is something wholly encapsulating about this moment. Hannibal's control feels weaker, his attention narrowed down to a single point of focus where Will's tongue pushes against him, licking and pressing inside in shallow thrusts. He's unhurried, taking his time, but there is real hunger in the way Will persists, adjusting through Hannibal's accidental movement, where he cannot help but shift his hips or press back. Will's hands are firm and solid, a grounding point, and Hannibal cannot help his reactions. When Will takes him, it's always intense, always exactly what they both need, but Will is operating under a goal he wishes to reach. His own pleasure is in the equation.

Yet in this, Hannibal can feel him tasting evidence of the fact he's already come. _Will's_ pleasure isn't the focus now and that is perhaps what makes Hannibal react more. This is intensity but it's also intimacy. It's Will pushing, Will curious, Will staking a greater claim and testing limits Hannibal has never questioned about himself. It's wholly thrilling to be the sole focus of Will's attention, and as he feels each wet lick and press of Will's tongue, Hannibal feels the oversensitive slide of pleasure working through him. He doesn't know how long it's been since he'd come, but Will hasn't relented once. Now, finally, feeling Will press inside of him with shallow thrusts, Hannibal shivers, groaning tightly as pleasure gathers within in a more tangible way.

He's slower in getting hard this time for it isn't entirely comfortable, more of an over-sensitive spark of arousal and pleasure that leaves him aching, but Hannibal doesn't protest or fight it. Instead he hisses sharply and presses his closed fist to the headboard, pressing against it with white knuckles as he trembles and fights to remain still and composed. He fails in both instances, for he cannot stop the way he presses back, seeking Will's attention like a man starved for it, nor can he silence the sounds he makes as Will moans and pushes further. That Will finds this enjoyable sends a hot spark of arousal through Hannibal's body and it isn't long before he's hard, though he still feels sharply sensitive as Will eats him out.

* * *

 This isn't exactly something Will ever planned or thought he would be doing. Certain sexual activities seemed inevitable - like giving a blowjob, or being fucked - only fair, after all, but having his mouth anywhere near Hannibal's asshole still seems like it shouldn't be occurring. But it is. His tongue licked over the sensitive area, felt the puckered skin, teased around the hole, lapped at it like a dog and now is pushing its way inside.

Again and again he thrusts. His jaw actually is beginning to ache from this pursuit, but Will hardly cares. It's not going to stop him. He can feel Hannibal trying to hold back, a thread of resistance, that ever present urge to remain in control and composed... But Hannibal ultimately fails for he _is_ louder and vocal. Hannibal _does_ shift and move into the touch. It's actually pretty damn arousing.

But Will is only human and does pull away, needing a small break. After catching his breath and stretching his jaw he mumbles, "You really like this, huh?" Dumb question, but Will doesn't care.

He grabs at the towel, wiping up the mixture of come, spit and lube between Hannibal's cheeks. It's then, curious, Will leans to the side and observes that Hannibal _is_ actually hard again. Huh. He reaches through Hannibal's spread legs and grips Hannibal's cock stroking it slowly.

"You want my mouth back on you, baby?" He assumes it's a yes, but hearing Hannibal's ragged voice say please is too appealing right now.

* * *

Will is not the only one who needs a break by the time he finally draws back. Hannibal lets out a heavier breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and while there is a part of him that wishes to immediately reach back and find Will's hair with his fingers so that he can ease him in closer again, he doesn't. Instead he merely rests there, his breathing rougher and slightly ragged, one arm stretched out in front of him, his fist resting against the headboard. His head hangs as some of the immediate tension from oversensitivity eases, but his body still buzzes with a curious hyper-sensitive pleasure. Hannibal is silently amazed that Will has been able to bring him to this point; he hadn't even believed himself capable until now.

The break is necessary. He doesn't know why Will has stopped, doesn't look back or dare to look. He merely focuses on catching his breath, on trying to calm the small twitches and shivers of oversensitive arousal drawn out by Will's tongue. He feels no shame when Will moves the towel and initially Hannibal believes Will has tasted his fill. Either the goal had been to get him hard again and leave it or Will just doesn't know he is. Before he can lever himself back up again and attempt to piece himself back into something less on edge with pleasure, however, Will's hand suddenly wraps around his cock and Hannibal twitches at the sensation, torn between the urge to move away or to press into it.

Will makes up his mind when he starts to stroke. It's slow, careful, and Hannibal shivers, his body singing with another sharp spike of pleasure that is almost too much. If Will lets him come, it's likely to be _good_ , but it's also likely to hurt, and Hannibal shudders at the thought. He lets himself relax as much as he can and when Will's question comes, Hannibal feels both intrigued and breathless. A break, then. Will hadn't intended to stop, but he wants to make Hannibal answer. If Hannibal's guess is correct, he wishes him to _ask_.

"Yes," Hannibal breathes back, and his voice almost surprises him with how rough it sounds. "Yes, I would like that very much. Please, Will."

* * *

He's given them both a small respite, but knowing that Hannibal is hard again has Will interested in seeing if he can work another orgasm out of the older man. He's observed that Hannibal is quite sensitive, so his hand doesn't grip tightly around Hannibal's dick, no. He's unhurried in his pace as he waits for Hannibal to answer, stroking slowly.

Hannibal's voice says it all: he's very affected. It's rough and uneven and fucking _perfect_. Will's eyes slip shut as he basks in Hannibal's delicious plea. He feels the stirring of his own arousal, but it's not important right now. Will is a man drunk on indulging in Hannibal and Hannibal will allow him to drink his fill and then some. Maybe tonight has bordered on the unhealthy, the violence and possession, but it feels like it's _them_ and as long as it isn’t hidden, as long as it’s out in the open, it’s okay. (They'll be okay.)

"Good, Hannibal," Will murmurs, voice warm and he opens his eyes. "If you can come, I want you to."

That's all he says before his free hand parts Hannibal once more. It's a little tougher with just one hand, but he manages. Will gently licks over the swollen hole, wetting the area again before he presses a kiss to the sensitive area. Experimentally, his mouth parts and he begins sucking and breathing through his nose. A few times he gets caught up and his hand stutters in its action on Hannibal's cock. It only takes him a handful of seconds before Will remembers and starts up again. He's not perfect at managing his breathing or being flawless in his administration, but he knows Hannibal won't complain. Hannibal loves him - all the rough edges - and Will is truly accepted and _seen_. It's such an overwhelming realization that Will doesn't know how to deal with it most of the time (so naturally he tries to _not_ think about it). After a little bit of time, Will thrusts his tongue back inside of Hannibal. He's slow, he pushes in as deep as he can and wiggles it around before fucking back into him lazily.

* * *

The permission to come is given preemptively and that alone tells Hannibal that Will doesn't intend to stop for some time. There's a small frisson of curious concern in the back of his mind, the vague wonder over whether or not he's even capable of coming again. He's hard but over-sensitive and every touch of Will's hands to his skin feels sharp and intense, but the thought of coming undone like this, of letting Will have this - have _him_ like this - is enough to send a shiver down Hannibal's spine, hot and tempting. He'll push himself as much as he can. It's not enough for him to safeword out, and the thought of Will's satisfaction if and when he makes Hannibal come like this is enough to send another hot twist of arousal through him.

He wants Will to have that victory. Hannibal rests against the sheets as Will's hand strokes him slowly, his head still hanging, tension etched into the tight line of his shoulders. He focuses his attention on the touch to his cock, on Will's proximity, and when Will leans in anew and spreads him open, Hannibal lets out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and forces himself to stay still. It's a thrilling, beautiful torture. Every lick over his hole is maddening, though Hannibal does appreciate that Will doesn't push immediately. Instead every lick is soft, focusing on slowly working him up again, and Hannibal's free hand grips the sheets under him as a reminder to stay still. His thighs tremble with the effort it takes to allow Will this freedom, to keep his hips from rocking, to merely allow Will to touch and kiss and lick at his leisure.

The suction is not expected, and Hannibal's voice breaks on a rougher sound, the headboard creaking as Hannibal shoves his closed fist against it. Between his legs, his cock leaks onto Will's hand and even as the strokes falter, Hannibal's focus is entirely on Will's mouth, on the sensations he's never experienced before. Perhaps Will's focus isn't perfect, perhaps his ability to multitask in this instance is lacking, but Hannibal hardly cares. He's caught up in the hot breaths against his skin, the press of Will's tongue, and the hand stroking him. Nothing else matters but that and Will's desire to see him come. So despite the flickers and stabs of oversensitivity that rip like electricity over his skin, Hannibal groans Will's name roughly, encouraging, and tries to make himself relax.

It takes him some time to manage, his body aching for release and from the stimulation. Pleasure climb and ebbs and it takes every ounce of control Hannibal has to finally make himself relax, but when he does, he feels the difference immediately. The sharp edge doesn't leave but it's immediately overshadowed by how _good_ Will's mouth feels. Hannibal groans low in his throat, bordering on desperate, and when Will's tongue finally slips back inside as deeply as it can go, Hannibal twitches and finally can't resist pushing back. Will takes his time and Hannibal chases the sensation, and it's good, leaving him burning up in the intensity.

In the end it's a slow climb, perhaps the counterpoint to how visceral the pleasure had been the first time. Hannibal feels the edge approaching with plenty of time to warn Will, but he doesn't. His focus is entirely on it, on fulfilling Will's desire to see him come again. Hannibal's breathing begins to hitch, begins to go ragged, and his rhythm falters with every press of Will's tongue, so perfect and indulgent. Hannibal chokes on a soft sound, something that sounds like a mix between a curse and Will's name, and the headboard groans alarmingly when he shoves his closed fist against it hard. He has all of a second to prepare and then suddenly pleasure sears through him like a live wire, achingly good and so sensitive that it hurts. Hannibal trembles as he comes, every breath ragged and thin, and he rolls his hips desperately, chasing the press of Will's tongue and the strokes of his hand until it's on the edge of too much.

* * *

He has Hannibal's heart. He has his mind, but Will wants more. Never satisfied, Will wants to push Hannibal and he wants to push himself. (He fears the static, the complacency.) This is merely another opportunity to do so. Although it may be unexpected for them both, Will's grateful for this chance. And maybe he's a little proud of himself, too. Maybe he's surprised that he can indulge Hannibal like this and be okay. (He _is_ okay, _they're_ okay. Hannibal may not trust him fully, but he _will_ one day.)

So, he does indulge. Will tries his best, his eyes slip shut and he learns the feel of Hannibal's body with his tongue and mouth. It's more intimate than his dick inside of Hannibal and that alone makes up for any of the unpleasantries. His hand stutters and stops more than a few times on Hannibal's cock, but what he may not possess in multitasking, Will makes up for in eagerness.

And he is eager. Determined. And when Hannibal begins to push back against him - giving into the pleasure more - Will groans and loses himself in the task. Time is irrelevant, the strain doesn't matter, he pushes himself and his tongue fucks inside of the hot clench of Hannibal. He's barely aware of Hannibal groaning his name or hitting the headboard.

He pushes on. It's a messy business, the lower half of his face wet with his own spit and sweat that's dripped. His mind suddenly makes another connection to a memory where _both_ their faces were slick and hot with blood: Hannibal had bit out Dolarhyde's neck while Will's face was wet with his own blood... But Will's also bitten and torn flesh. (He has the gruesome thought of them biting together, their teeth ripping, their hands holding down their prey. Together they would be wolves, hunting and eating--)

When Hannibal finally does come, Will registers it, but doesn't stop. He's caught in the heat and the scent of blood, of seeing the feral glint in Hannibal's eyes. (Maybe it's not such a bad thing to be the wendigo if he is still a part of Hannibal.)

* * *

Pleasure pulses hot and violent until it can hardly claim the meaning anymore but Hannibal basks in it. Sensitivity wars with pain and pleasure both, weaving all three together in a loom of Will's choosing. Hannibal is left vulnerable to an outcome Will wishes as Will weaves and creates a bigger picture together, a vast canvas of artful colors. Whether his hand is steady with skill or wild with fevered passion remains to be seen, but whatever the outcome, Hannibal knows it will be glorious. He can feel each aching twist of sensitivity as his pulse pounds and his blood runs hot in his veins, but he allows it to twist through him as he gasps sharply and grinds back, trembling with _too much_ for as long as he can stand it.

There is something intimate about having Will push not only his limits but _their_ limits. Hannibal cal feel the warmed leather around his neck still, can feel the deep ache from Will's earlier thrusts, and sensitivity burns through him like poor insulation around a copper wire. Yet despite this, Will keeps pushing, keeps going. He's lost in the act and the thought that Will has allowed himself to get swept up in something so visceral and intimate sends a fresh wave of agonizing pleasure through him. Hannibal's breathing is ragged, sweat slick on his skin as he begins to come down from his orgasm. Or rather, as he _should_ come down, but Will is pushing and enthusiastic and all it takes is the space between breaths for the sensation to go from sharply pleasurable to sharply painful.

Hannibal still bears it for as long as he can manage, but when spots begin to flicker in and out of his vision and every touch of Will's hands seem to spark a lance of hypersensitivity, he can stand it no longer.

"Will," Hannibal grinds out, and his voice is thin and strained but rough, "Will, please. No more, you... you need to stop." His tone has long-passed desperate, but he still doesn't draw away or move his hands back to shove Will away. If he's capable of following the earlier commands, he will; he doesn't _want_ to safeword out, but he will if he has to. "Will," Hannibal repeats, his muscles trembling involuntarily at the strain.

* * *

He thinks of the taste and texture of blood and spit. He lets the the wetness and heat of Hannibal's body sustain him. Will remembers bare skin sliding and rubbing against slick skin. Sex and violence swirl in his mind. Will's tongue persists. His hand persists. He thinks of collars around both of their necks, for surely he belongs to Hannibal as much as Hannibal belongs to him. Ripping and biting, but not to claim possession - maybe he has a new appreciation for Randall Tier. (But Tier had been a solitary hunter - something they would never be.)

It had to be them together. They had killed The Dragon together. They had fallen into the ocean together. Started this new life together. Together. Intertwined. Conjoined. Hooks and claws deep within the flesh of each other - neither one of them would be escaping. Hannibal was no longer The Chesapeake Ripper, for the Ripper had worked alone. And the wendigo wasn't the soulless creature Will had made it out be years ago. They _wouldn't_ be killing alone now. They _would_ be killing again soon.

But he's brought back to reality when he picks up a note of distress in Hannibal's plea. Will pulls back and lets his mind catch up to the words that he hadn't been paying attention to. ' _No more... Need to stop…_ ' Hannibal is trembling and distraught. Will's hand is wet with semen and he stops moving it, pulling it back while he finally comprehends that Hannibal had been overstimulated and likely hurting.

"Shit, sorry," Will mumbles out breathlessly. He grabs the already soiled towel and and cleans off his hand before crawling over to Hannibal's head. Will's hand strokes through Hannibal's sweaty hair. His eyes are drawn to the collar, but he tries to focus.

"You can move, we're done with this for tonight." Will feels disconnected, his head swimming with urges.

* * *

For a moment Hannibal isn't certain that Will has heard him, or that Will is going to stop. He can feel his own safeword building - though there's no guarantee Will is going to understand that either - but there's something raw and intimate in feeling so much by Will's doing. Hannibal isn't upset, isn't terrified the way some would be. He isn't even afraid. It's just pain, just an intimate oversensitivity that will not do permanent damage. Hannibal's only concern is when Will comes back to himself and realizes what he's done. If he goes much further, Hannibal will no longer be conscious and the thought of Will upset is enough to make him grab his word even closer.

He's on the verge of gasping it out when Will seems to come back to himself. One moment he's pressing close with wild, almost animalistic abandon. The next his tongue withdraws and he's left panting, breathing almost as hard as Hannibal is. Hannibal doesn't track Will's return to himself, merely breathes hard as the onslaught of sensitivity ceases. His body is still a live wire but at least the direct stimulation stops, and after a moment, Will seems to realize just _what_ has been happening.

He draws back with an apology and Hannibal gives his head a lazy shake, still breathless, his muscles still trembling. The touch of Will's fingers in his hair a moment later borders on too much again but Hannibal lets out a rougher breath of relief, leaning into it. It isn't until Will gives him the permission to move that he does, shakily lowering himself to the bed and feeling the sheets almost too rough against his skin. He takes a moment to drag his arms back but instead of resting, Hannibal immediately reaches out to Will. One hand curls around his hip and Hannibal sluggishly moves in close enough to press his cheek to Will's chest, brushing a kiss over damp skin and holding him like a drowning man to a life preserver. He'd been denied the ability to touch Will in return, and the contact is its own reward.

"Thank you," Hannibal says roughly, breathlessly, and he doesn't just mean for all of this. The nightmare is a faded blip on his radar, hardly worthy of attention. "Are you alright?"

* * *

The only time Will's maybe lost a bit of himself during sex was the first time they made love. All of his sexual experiences with Hannibal have been really great - Will has no complaints - but he feels shaken up from this latest one, like the haze of a dream is clinging to him despite rolling out of bed. He knows relatively little about the specifics regarding oversensitivity or overstimulation, but he can put two and two together. He should have stopped immediately after Hannibal had came. Whoops.

When permission is given, Will watches Hannibal lower himself and not take a break or rest, no, but reach out to him. Will settles down on the pillow and let's Hannibal nearly cling to him. (How many times has he done this very thing, but their positions reversed? Countless. He's once again reminded that he likes being able to provide comfort like this... It happens so rarely.)

"[Ça va](It's%20okay.)," Will murmurs, seeking to reassure Hannibal instead of answering the question. He's not really sure _how_ to answer. (But he's alright. He has to be alright.) Will can feel the belt still looped around Hannibal's neck - his collar, the leather supple and warm. His hand in Hannibal's hair is gentle while the other arm wraps around the body holding him. Will closes his eyes and starts to calm down himself. He enjoys the ache to his jaw and the exhaustion of his muscles from the exertion. He is more than satiated (at least when it comes to sex).

"[Je t'ai](I%20have%20you.)," Will adds on, exhaling a little slower. (It almost sounds like a happy sigh.) He may not have been able to stop Jack from injuring Hannibal, but Will's going make sure it never happens again. They'll hunt together. _Be_ together. Slick with blood and collars firmly affixed, a new wendigo of their own design.

( _I have you._ )


	3. Tolerate/Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to believe that dark creatures like them get a happy ending even though they may not deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. Our baby is back. Hope you enjoy this as much as did while writing it. You can also enjoy it more or less. Those are also options, but we're hoping for more! (๑✧◡✧๑)
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> As always, thank you [ TempestandTeacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestandTeacup/pseuds/TempestandTeacup) for the beta & assistance with French! <3

 

There is an odd fog-like calm that settles over the next few days, though Hannibal cannot properly explain where it has come from. Will is careful with him to a degree bordering on insulting until Hannibal makes a point to shield the slight limp the rougher evening had gifted him. For awhile there is something that lingers behind Will's eyes that feels like the first spark of flint onto kindling, but every time Hannibal believes he's found it in order to nail it down, it vanishes into the recesses of Will's mind, away from his view. It doesn't seem dangerous, doesn't seem like Will is about to break down or regret his recent decisions. He doesn't fall apart and apologize for expressing an interest in being more dominant, though he also doesn't make any move to rekindle the roles he'd set forth that night.

The only indication Will is still thinking about it is the way after his eyes sometimes linger on the bruise around Hannibal's throat, still raw even days later from the rubbing and yanking of the belt around his throat.

He touches it himself sometimes, admiring the deep reds and blues in the bathroom mirror before showering. There are other bruises and marks left behind, but each one is a pleasant sensation -- a reminder of Will's abandon and how he'd allowed his own monster free for a few moments that evening. Hannibal had enjoyed the sight of it. He still enjoys the memory. There are a few times he considers bringing it up, but each time he allows the impulse to fade. Will's expression has been slightly more cut off, slightly more contained. Hannibal watches him curiously over the following days, tasting the crackling of tension like a growing storm. He wonders idly if this is the eye of a hurricane that he is unaware of and can't help but be curious as to the cause, but he doesn't ask and Will doesn't volunteer the information.

The day the hurricane touches down, Hannibal knows _something_ will happen. He can feel it in the air like static electricity on his skin, and while there is a small part of him left concerned for Will, he is still the man he is. Curiosity plays a part and so while he _could_ ask, he opts not to. Instead he's curious as to what Will is going to eventually do. Like a keeper watching an animal pace wildly behind bars, Hannibal observes Will that morning in silence. He cooks breakfast, makes coffee, and nothing is out of the ordinary, but he can feel Will's gaze lingering low sometimes. At first he simply believes Will is gearing up into another scene; he has a familiar tension thrumming from him like the vibrations of a deep bass, low and shaking to his core. But as the day crawls on, a lingering tension begins to lift the fine hairs on the back of Hannibal's neck. Something will happen. He just doesn't know what that will be.

He goes about the day as he does every other, admiring the empty band of pale flesh on Will's ring finger. He trades a few cursory kisses in greeting and tastes the thrumming in Will's body like an odd aftertaste. Breakfast is made, and then a lighter lunch. Hannibal reads, sipping wine, a gentle aria playing in the background after he'd managed to acquire a recording. Hannibal prefers records; there is a deeper thrum to the music, but the CD player will have to do until he can track something more fitting down. When dinner begins to approach, Hannibal closes his book and rises with only the faintest of twinges, walking out to check on the meat he's been marinating since the day prior. The beef is resting finely in a red wine marinade, the bouquet pleasing to his senses as he tests it and finds the meat already tender to touch.

Rolling up the sleeves of a thinner gray sweater - a v-neck simply because Will has been enjoying the sight of the fading bruises around Hannibal's neck - Hannibal steps over to the fridge and begins to rifle through it, selecting the proper vegetables and ingredients to make something far more savory for dinner.

"Will?" Hannibal calls back calmly. "Would you like to assist me in preparing dinner?"

* * *

Will hasn't forgotten what Hannibal waking from a nightmare had lead into. Perhaps not the best timing, but they'd had their first foray into Will being officially dominant. Hannibal picked a safeword, because Will wanted it. Hannibal fashioned one of his belts into a collar and leash because Will wanted it. Will can recall making Hannibal fuck himself on his fingers. Asking for desperation. Seeing and feeling the desperation. He remembers pushing his dick in, no barrier between their skin, no condom... And then finding the haggard scar on Hannibal's calf. Learning and imagining the altercation with Jack, feeling the rage and possessive scream start up in his head (different than the usual one). He'd leaned over Hannibal's body, hands curling underneath the collar, and yanking. The sex had been far from lovemaking. It had been animalistic fucking, really. No finesse, nothing gentle about it. Will also can't forget licking and fucking Hannibal's asshole with his tongue. (It still doesn't gross him out.) Hannibal had ended up with bruises and a limp after it all and Will has opened a new door inside himself.

He wants to talk to Hannibal about this all, but he's still processing it. Which really is just him mostly going about business as usual and _not_ thinking about it often. At least not in Hannibal's presence. Whenever he sees Hannibal's bruises, Will's eyes widen in acknowledgment and wonder. _His_ wants have brought these marks to Hannibal. Hannibal's hands had created the collar and leash. Will jerks off once in the shower thinking about Hannibal's hands (hands that have choked him before, hands that killed Henri, hands that held onto spindles for him, hands that would--)

Will hasn't made any particular decision when he wakes up that day. He feels like enough time has passed and that he wants to do _something,_ but what that something is, he's unsure of. The day progresses as normal, but the desire to play at dominance doesn't dissipate. When he's called to the kitchen, he comes. It's not unusual to help prepare dinner. Cooking with Hannibal - while he's still rather hapless at times - is a bonding activity for them. It will always be Hannibal's domain, but Will likes visiting it. Will enters the kitchen wearing jeans and an undershirt.

"Hannibal," Will says and his voice is lower as he strides over. He's made up his mind now. His hands rest on Hannibal's firm shoulders. "I want you to get to your knees for me. In the middle of the floor. You can instruct me." Hannibal is tall enough that he should be able to see what he's doing. Will's a little nervous to be attempting to finish up whatever, but he imagines that Hannibal giving up control in the kitchen won't be easy either. It would be a new undertaking for them both.

* * *

The beef will be a meal enough on its own, soaked until tenderized, the alcohol in the wine having long since broken down tougher fibers. Considering the tenderloin is already aptly named, Hannibal is pleased. This will do its part to melt on the tongue, but it could still do with a sauce and paired roasted vegetables. He considers the wine in the dish and decides a sauce would not be overpowering. Will seems to enjoy a slightly fuller flavor. With that in mind, Hannibal pauses to peel and wash shallots as he listens to Will's approach. He's not forgotten about the tension in the air but he mistakenly believes that Will Graham is a man who will allow Hannibal to take charge of what he is best at.

Unfortunately for him, Will proves him wrong in no time at all. Hannibal has a knife in hand, already starting to swiftly chop the shallots on the cutting board when he feels Will's hands settle on his shoulders. The contact would be pleasant save he can feel the tension underneath the touch. Hannibal stills mid-chop and then completes it to prepare. Sure enough, the tone of Will's voice implies all he needs to know. He's told to get on his knees and _instruct_ , and while the thought of submitting doesn't typically bother him, the thought of submitting _here_ does.

Hannibal frowns. He sets the knife down on the cutting board and then turns to look at Will. He reads something in his eyes, but instead of immediately complying with Will's wishes, Hannibal glances back to the beef marinating in the red wine, and then he sighs, turning his attention back to Will.

"Can this wait until after dinner is in the oven?" Hannibal wants to know. "It will be a while to cook through. Whatever you have planned can certainly wait until dinner is on its way to being prepared."

* * *

So, Hannibal is resistant to the idea. Will's not surprised. While cooking or even just being _in_ the kitchen, Hannibal hasn't allowed anything sexual to transpire. Will doesn't plan on this being or becoming sexual, but yeah, he knows this is a sanctuary of sorts for Hannibal. Hannibal finds peace and relaxation here; he's in control while in the kitchen and Will is seeking to throw a wrench into everything. Sure, he gets it - he _does_ \- but he's not going to back down. Change is uncomfortable. It's time for Hannibal to be uncomfortable and bend. For him. (He ignores his own agitation at Hannibal not immediately complying. He knew this undertaking wouldn't always go smoothly.)

He faces Hannibal, his fingers tapping against the fabric of the sweater. The bruises are lovely and as much as he would like to lean in and kiss them, he holds himself back.

"No," Will states definitively. "It can't wait. Do as I asked, Hannibal. _S'il te plaît."_

He knows manners go a long way with Hannibal so Will isn't above using them and in French no less. He breaks away from Hannibal to head over to the sink and wash his hands. He takes a quick glance at what Hannibal has got going on and Will _thinks_ he can probably manage with instruction.

When he turns back around he adds on, "Trust me."

* * *

Hannibal is not expecting Will to relent. Will Graham is not a man to make decisions lightly and once he has his mind set on something, it's difficult to change its course. So when Will gives him the answer - a definitive _no_ \- Hannibal frowns deeper, his jaw setting; he knows that this is not optional. Oh, he can insist, he can refuse to give in, but this is such a small concession on his part. This dynamic is new for them both and Hannibal doesn't want to make Will feel like he can't take control as needed. A part of him wonders if Will is counting on Hannibal's reluctance to upset him, but he's not upset by it. Will is learning slowly, and manipulation has always been a force between them.

Sighing tightly - though manners do smooth slightly ruffled feathers - Hannibal resists for a few more moments, looking at the shallots on the counter. Then he closes his eyes, draws a deeper breath, and sets the knife down on the counter with a pointed click. He takes two steps forward after Will has gone to wash his hands and slowly lowers himself down onto his knees on the hard floor, his posture tight and expression carefully blank. Given that Will knows him, the irritation is likely clearly stated regardless of how Hannibal tries to hide it. There's tension in his posture as he settles on his knees, his hands on his lap and his spine almost rigidly straight.

"Will this suffice?"

* * *

Hannibal has lowered himself to his knees -- Hannibal is actually kneeling on the middle of the kitchen floor. Will swallows past a lump before his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. It's quite the fucking sight to behold. Even though this isn't supposed to be sexual and Hannibal is dressed, it's almost as erotic as Hannibal being naked and on his forearms and knees on the bed. Fuck. Will feels blood rush south and tries his hardest to reel himself back in. (This isn't supposed to be about him, goddammit.)

Hannibal doesn't look pleased, no. Hannibal is trying for a neutral expression, but everything from the rigid posture and tightness by the older man's eyes gives it away. Even so, Will can't help but feel proud that it was his words - his command - that had Hannibal submitting.

"Mm, it's good," Will mumbles. He clears his throat trying to compose himself. Will's hands fidget and he almost goes to rub his face but he remembers before they make contact that he just washed them and he's going to be cooking.

Instead, he walks to the counter where the remaining shallots await him. "Yeah, it's perfect." This time Will's tone is more firm. He picks up the knife and takes up Hannibal's task. "I still remember you holding my hand all those months ago," Will begins conversationally. Hannibal had been behind him, close, warm, steadying him while instructing how to properly mince.

"They were shallots too... You--" He suddenly stops and eyebrows crease at what he was going to divulge. He stops chopping, the knife's blade posed over a shallot. Should he...?

(Yes.)

If Hannibal is pushing himself, he can too. "You remember how I kinda lost it? How I hallucinated we were in your office? There was more to it than that."

* * *

The word _perfect_ is a mild balm for Hannibal's senses. He's aware that Will would likely see it as ruffled feathers but he's not about to be so dismissive of himself. Instead he merely braces himself on his knees, kneeling properly, and tries not to divulge how little he enjoys the idea of _Will_ in the kitchen. Hannibal is tall enough that he can still see what Will is doing, but that doesn't mean that he enjoys the idea of merely sitting and watching as Will does his work for him. Hannibal enjoys being able to facilitate meal preparation. It's always settled him, focused his mind. That he's been reduced to merely watching does not sit properly with him but he isn't about to voice these thoughts aloud.

Will's form in the kitchen isn't bad. He isn't left cringing at how Will moves to chop the shallots. Instead Hannibal merely frowns over at him, his lips turning down as he turns his palms over to set them flat on his knees, warming them as a sensory distraction to his own irritation.

Even so, agitated as he is at being made a witness to his own craft, Will's reflection is enough to get Hannibal's attention. He glances up at Will silently and after a moment, he does remember what Will is talking about. It's been months since that moment in the kitchen but he can still recall Will's reaction, his awkward admission. Hannibal thinks back on the moment and silently marvels at how far they've come since then. Will catches him off guard with his little addition. Blinking when Will cuts himself off, Hannibal cants his head to the side ever so slightly, curious. What doesn't he want to say?

"I remember, yes," Hannibal says, because he does. "Would you like to tell me what else happened, Will?"

* * *

At the time, Will had only mentioned seeing them in Hannibal's office and holding a knife. He hadn't delved into any more details than that. Fantasizing about murder was one thing, but _sharing_ that with Hannibal... Not that he's shared it with Hannibal _now_ either (maybe that's why he's deciding to spill the beans about this one). Will's thought far too much about violence for his liking. He can't even blame Hannibal. Hannibal seems content to idly exist in this bubble. While Will...

(...He can fill in the blank himself, but does he want to? He's the one that manipulated Hannibal into killing for him. There's a different scream in his head, one that's looking for attention and a companion.)

"Yeah," Will says on a rather telling exhale. He's torn between staring at the knife in his hand or turning to gaze at Hannibal's submission. "In your office, there was a body pinned down by antlers to your desk -- a shout-out to Hobbs, I guess," Will begins softly and wets his lips. He's only managed to cut up one shallot, but he's not really bothered by it. He doesn't think they're in any kind of rush. He knows this is more important anyway.

"We were holding a knife together, like in the kitchen. You were murmuring encouragements. You know, ever the supportive partner even in my fantasies." Despite the slight sarcasm, Will feels antsy and uncomfortably aroused by both the knowledge of Hannibal on his knees so close and by what he's exposing.

* * *

Will's posture is curious and telling in one. Hannibal is quiet as he kneels there, waiting for Will to make up his mind enough to speak. He suspects this is something that Will wishes to divulge and Hannibal goes respectfully quiet despite his lingering irritation. That Will has only finished one shallot does not go unnoticed and Hannibal still has a timeline in mind for when the tenderloin is to be put in the oven, but this is more important. If the price of Will's honesty is a late dinner, Hannibal has no complaints. Instead he merely looks at Will in an open, curious silence and waits for him to make up his mind.

When he does, the picture that Will paints is quick but artful. Hannibal allows himself to picture it, to imagine the body pinned down by antlers across the surface of his desk. He imagines standing behind Will, both their hands on a knife, but ultimately giving Will autonomy and control over what they do with it.

"Symbolism," Hannibal decides after a moment, his voice softer. "A physical representation of my influence over you in the past. My hand steadying your knife and my voice encouraging, but you standing before me. Your choice whether to listen to the whispers or to shut yourself off from them. Tell me, Will. How does the memory make you feel now?"

 _Lazy psychiatry,_ Will's voice from years ago rings in his mind and Hannibal almost smiles at the nostalgia of it. Instead he merely remains on his knees, though given the look of calculated interest behind his eyes as he draws a small breath in through his nose, he is aware that Will is not unaffected by this - by Hannibal on his knees or by the topic of conversation.

And yes, there is a thread of lingering bitterness over the thought of murder and influence. Henri is still a bitter memory, but that is not to linger over now. Instead Hannibal merely looks at Will expectantly, almost daring. Perhaps he is in a submissive position but Hannibal is never _truly_ submissive.

* * *

Will's hand tightens on the knife and he now realizes that it's the _same_ knife. Deja vu. The shallots wait before him on the cutting board, but Will is motionless as he listens to Hannibal's words. Dividing his attention is out of the question (and Hannibal would never forgive him if he ended up cutting himself). During the hallucination, Will remembers the desire to see a genuine smile from Hannibal. Back then, he'd foolishly believed that he alone couldn't manage such a feat. But Hannibal has been in no hurry to explore such darkness. Instead he's been supportive in a different way - patient and indulgent whenever Will has brought such things up, but never the one to initiate the discussion.

 _How did that make him feel now?_ A grin twitches at the corners of his mouth. Lazy psychiatry, indeed. Will's grip loosens on the knife as he turns the instrument and the blade gleams. He looks at the stainless steel blade, but it's not a sliver of _his_ reflection shown to him - not really, anyway. It's the half-marble wendigo for a moment until Will blinks and then it's himself. He places the knife down on the cutting board.

"Since you asked, _Doctor,_ " Will begins as he turns around and looks at Hannibal again. The sight of Hannibal has arousal stirring more and Will knows it's not a secret. (Hannibal _obeying_ him, Hannibal _in_ the kitchen on his knees - the one place that had been off limits and Hannibal listening to him reach out to the darkness again...)

"I feel emboldened at the thought of us taking a life _together_." Will steps over to Hannibal, standing in front of him, a hand coming to brush through soft hair. "I've thought about that quite a bit... Like when I fucked you the last time."

* * *

Folie à deux. Madness of two. Hannibal looks up at Will from his position on the floor and while his hands are on his knees and he's kneeling on Will's command, he can feel the stirring of influence between them. Will is standing, in control, his hand on the handle of the knife, and yet Hannibal finds himself wondering what Will would do were he simply to give Will a command in return. Influence creeps like a gentle darkness and while Hannibal is not privy to Will's thoughts, he can sense the change in the air, the thickness of tension that translates into a low arousal. Thoughts of dismissing Will or insisting that the kitchen is off limits for such things haven't fully vanished but Hannibal is _intrigued_ by this. He keeps his expression as blank as he can, but there's no way to hide the flicker of interest when Will uses his title. _Doctor._

Will sets the knife down and turns to face him and Hannibal watches him with an expectant expression, muted but no less rapt. He listens attentively and watches as Will steps in closer. One step, then two, his strides subtle but coiled with a hidden power of confidence that Hannibal can see writ into Will's expression. He looks calm but powerful, and it's a beautiful expression on his face. "Will," Hannibal says, perhaps to interject, or maybe in awe, for Will's admission is telling. The thought of taking a life _together_ , of exploring that side of their relationship properly for the first time is thrilling, but the thought settles lower as Will steps in close enough to touch him.

Hannibal half-closes his eyes in contentment, leaning into the touch to his hair without shame. He keeps his hands where they are, willful submission even though he's well aware that he could take Will's legs and pull him to the floor with hardly any effort. Hannibal can almost feel the collar around his throat from a few nights ago and he believes he can understand how a wild animal feels in intentionally allowing its handler to handle them. The power comes from both sides like this.

"Are you asking for my professional opinion on the matter?" Hannibal asks, like he's not kneeling on the floor, like he can't see the slight press of Will's cock in his jeans or smell his arousal. "It makes sense that you would have such fantasies while being dominant. You have always felt an affinity for power, though you often deny yourself. Seeing me here, like this... does it not make you feel powerful, Will? Do you believe killing would make you feel the same?"

* * *

Will doubts he will ever come to a complete acceptance of his darkness. By now he knows that certain violent urges haven't dissipated even though he's no longer looking at crime scenes and sampling the minds of killers. Like he'd said in the car, he can't even blame Hannibal for it. Will may have his very own 'caught' and convicted serial killer next to him, but Hannibal is never the one to instigate anything remotely like this. Hannibal is not The Chesapeake Ripper anymore, no... And while that should be good, Will's not exactly sure how he feels about the conclusion. (Had there been a part of him that admired the Ripper's cunning and ruthlessness?)

The mention of a 'professional opinion' is amusing in its own way. Hannibal is not his fucking therapist anymore. Hannibal is on his knees... But talking about power like he _is_ his therapist - like this is just another old conversation musing about God and church collapses. (Pretentious bullshit, obscure mentions and playing safe while not admitting anything directly...)

 _'Seeing me here, like this...'_ Something about that phrase overshadows the mention of killing that follows. Something cold slithers up and into Will's chest, his hand tightening in Hannibal's hair and Will's eyes narrow. Something about this sight makes an unwanted connection spark in his mind. While bending and being uncomfortable _is_ something Will knows he wants to explore with Hannibal, limits and boundaries _are_ important and healthy. The kitchen's always been off limits... Had Hannibal simply relented because he was afraid to tell him 'no?'

' _Did love neuter you?'_ (Hannibal had disagreed, but maybe Will is Hannibal's own kryptonite?)

"With the knowledge of how you've fought to keep the kitchen off-limits, seeing you like this makes me wonder just how _weak_ you've let yourself become," Will provokes, yanking Hannibal's hair and tilting his head back in the process. He's still aroused, but it's now tinged with anger.

"I can see why Jack kicked your ass."

This is by far the rudest he's been to Hannibal in months, and while he _knows_ he's being reckless, the thought of Hannibal _allowing_ Jack to one-up him burns like a venom. Yes, he wants Hannibal to submit to him, but not if Hannibal is toeing around him delicately.

* * *

There is no immediate indication of Will's sudden emotional shift. The only hint is the way Will's fingers tighten in Hannibal's hair and an odd flicker of something behind his eyes. Hannibal doesn't look, his attention split and focused on the tug of Will's fingers in his hair. So Will’s decision, what he finally says, comes out of left field to him. The tone of voice is Hannibal's first hint - colder, a little more tense - and Hannibal has time enough to think about hurricanes making landfall before the words finally register and something in his stomach twists unpleasantly. He glances up at Will with a pinched frown; he has never enjoyed being called _weak_ in any capacity, but before he can voice his displeasure, Will's fingers twist cruelly in his hair and yank. Hannibal doesn't make a sound, but a sharper flare of discomfort does appear as his neck is pulled back sharply.

He remembers the makeshift collar. Remembers Will's anger. Remembers the way he'd pushed so far, but this already feels markedly different. Before Will had been angry at the memory of the man who had injured Hannibal. This time Hannibal can feel Will's anger like a laser pointed directly at him. Sure enough, that final statement - ' _I can see why Jack kicked your ass'_ \- is enough to send an immediate streak of indignation through him. Anger curls comfortably within his chest, an old companion, and Hannibal feels the fire of it burn down to his fingertips.

This is not teasing. This is not banter. This is Will intentionally provoking and while this is nothing new in terms of general submissive relationships, Hannibal is not a _real_ submissive. This is akin to the way Will had snarled at him in the car and it is not something Hannibal has any intention of standing again. Will is no longer the crazed-yet-fragile creature he had been months ago.

Hannibal reaches up with one hand and his fingers curl around Will's wrist. He says nothing, his expression set in the faintest of glares, and then his thumb presses against the carpometacarpal joint, steadily increasing pressure to send a very pointed, weakening pain through Will's arm.

"Can you, now? Might I remind you, Will, that this is something you have _asked_ of me. I do so willingly. Just as I chose to tell you about Jack. However, I reserve the right to revoke that permission at any time. Submission is a gift I give to you, not something for you to wield as a weapon. If you cannot be trusted with it, you don't deserve it. Now kindly release me and go to the living room. I believe we're done here."

* * *

With Hannibal's head tilted back, he can easily see the collection of bruises. The sight should be familiar and pleasing, but it's not. At least not in this moment. This is equivalent to 'making a scene' like he had at the tailors. Will doesn't _want_ to be ruining this fragile moment of submission, but his agitation and assumptions have got the better of him. It's not his actions that have taken a wrecking ball to the emerging submission, it's Will's words. The two of them now are amidst the rubble, but Will knows no dust will be settling peacefully.

Will doesn't want submission if he can't trust Hannibal to stick to his guns about some things - to essentially be honest with him. As much as Will wanted to push and be allowed to 'dirty up' the kitchen, should he have been allowed? (He doesn't think so.) When Hannibal's own hand exerts pressure on his wrist, Will doesn't even try to pull away from the pain. If anything, he pushes into it. He wants to see Hannibal's teeth, feel the sharpness. He wants Hannibal to fight back. (Reckless and impulsive, of course - but this isn't the same self-destructive Will as before.)

Hannibal chooses words as a weapon and wields them with aching precision. Their eyes glare at each other. On one level, Will can understand and empathize with Hannibal. Hannibal doesn't see how his mind makes connections. Hannibal thinks he'd done this to simply trip him up. (Has he? Will doesn't think so. He doesn't want to be that manipulative, but maybe...) But he can't take his words back. He will see this through and trust that they're strong enough to make it out of the mess in one piece.

"I can hardly believe this is the same man who outfoxed the FBI," Will begins and shakes his head. "Your leg aches from the cold, doesn't it?" Will lets go of Hannibal's hair. "You think I want your submission if it's not _genuine_? You should have said no. Just like you shouldn't have let Jack get the upper hand in Florence... Or were you just missing me too much to actually put up a fight? Are you whipped, Hannibal?"

* * *

There are many things that Hannibal is willing to withstand, but this is not one of them. Perhaps he has bent for Will, has allowed the weight of Will's uncertainty and self-destructive tendencies to stretch him to his limits at times but Hannibal has no intention of breaking. That Will has used this moment as a barb is not something Hannibal is willing to tolerate. Even he has his limits, and so when Will presses into the pain before releasing his hair, Hannibal merely glares at him and waits for the grip to release. Then he sets his hand back on his knee and rises without permission. He doesn't need it here, not when Will hasn't earned the right to give it.

When he'd predicted landfall he had not anticipated the hurricane's winds striking him into action. As always, Will is able to dig his claws in and tear. Hannibal isn't certain why he's surprised anymore.

"You know nothing about the altercation with Jack, nor do I feel particularly inclined to tell you when your only curiosity is so that you may find more ammunition when you decide to be _petulant_." Hannibal says, and there is a definite curl of anger in his tone. He stands straight and while he has only an inch of height on Will, he also has presence; he uses it fully. Will's words have hit their mark. They sting.

"Has this been building since I told you? Next time you have an issue, tell me immediately instead of letting it fester. I expressed my reluctance at letting you take over here but you insisted. I was attempting to _respect_ your foray into this new aspect of our relationship. That your goal was to use my desire to encourage you just so you could pollute it to suit your own assumptions is disrespectful and insulting." Hannibal glares at Will mildly but his disappointment is clear.

"But yes, Will. My leg does ache. Now as I said, we're done here. Please leave."

* * *

Will feels Hannibal's looming presence, but he stands his ground. He won't back away or back down. They're equals now, right?

"It wasn't my fucking goal," Will spits out. "I'm not that messed up."

The very thought is revolting, but he knows how this _looks_. This moment is rapidly spiraling away from his control, or was it only the illusion of control? He feels panic threaten to rise up and he loathes it. He doesn't want to lose it. He doesn't want this to end with Hannibal being _disappointed_ in him. (Not another case of duplicity. Not another fucking--) Will swallows and his hands curl into fists by his side.

"I wanted it, so I asked. And I did like it. But then for whatever reason my mind connected you giving in _here_ as a bad thing - as _weak_ \- and it pisses me off to think that Jack hurt you when I can't do anything about it. So, it's easier to be upset at you." He's rambling, but if he keeps talking maybe something will make sense, maybe the end won't come. "And sometimes I think you still treat me with kid gloves - delicately - and there's all this shit in my head - this violence - and you aren't... You're not my therapist who I can confess them to. You aren't the Ripper anymore. Where the fuck does that leave me?"

He's panting, working himself into some emotional state he wants nothing of. "You can do this easily - you can be the stay at home husband and cook and buy suits and be domesticated and I feel like I'm some wild thing left on its own."

Will steps closer to Hannibal, his hands coming to tangle in the soft shirt collar. "I don't want to play house anymore."

* * *

There is a side of Hannibal that is tempted to merely take Will's shoulder, spin him around, and march him out of the kitchen whether he wants to or not, particularly now that Will's expression is as set as his own is. Stubbornness is Will's natural state but Hannibal matches it well; he has no patience for a gift being returned. The last time Will had turned down a _rare gift_ offered to him, Hannibal's bitterness had split him open and Will's resolve had spilled between them on the kitchen floor as he'd sought to hold his intestines inside his body. He is no longer so brash, though the desire remains. Hannibal's jaw sets and he watches Will clench his hands, listens to him snap back.

Yet to his surprise, Will isn't merely lashing out. He's not throwing aimless curses or threatening violence. Hannibal is set to tune it all out; his patience for such matters has worn thin.

Will being _honest_ , however... Will taking a verbal blade and cutting himself so Hannibal can see the color in his metaphorical veins is another matter entirely. While angry, Hannibal does still and the half-step forward he'd taken with the goal of grabbing Will to throw him from the kitchen goes nowhere. Instead he listens. While frustration burns hotly that Will has not _said_ any of this to him (particularly while being so critical of Hannibal's silence) he can at least make sense of _this_. Will's earlier comments still burn hot in Hannibal's chest, but he can at least find the mindfulness to draw a slow breath and fight to wrest calm back into his wheelhouse. Miscommunication will kill them one day.

Will's hands tangle in Hannibal's shirt collar. Hannibal allows him, and while Will's meaning is poignant, Hannibal keeps his hands by his sides as he considers his answer carefully. He wants to throw back the curtains on this verbal dance.

"You believe my complacency as of late means I'm content to live like this indefinitely?" Hannibal asks quietly. It's a real question. "Somehow you connect my willingness to allow you control and my old injuries with this complacency you believe I now live in, and it upsets you because you aren't satisfied. Because it makes you feel isolated and alone. Will..." Hannibal sighs, and it isn't a disappointed sound. It's more understanding.

"I am no longer your therapist but you _can_ discuss these thoughts with me. I am not complacent; I am merely _patient_. I did not stride into Baltimore and begin killing immediately." Hannibal frowns and finally lifts one of his hands. He touches Will's chin with his thumb. The anger hasn't faded, but he can at least justify it now. "When we arrived here, we were gravely injured. Even now we are not at our strongest. But that is not the point I wish to make. The violence in your head is something we may discuss. I _will_ kill with you. But establishing a secure place to call home, falling into routine, and having something outside of killing is important. I was not caught because I was careful, Will. Care takes time. You are not alone in your darkness. As always, I am standing right beside you. Once, perhaps, complacency fueled our interactions. I didn't wish to upset you. Now you can handle honesty and I wish you to give me the same courtesy."

* * *

Will has chastised Hannibal about being honest in the past, but from his emotional outburst it's obvious that _he's_ been bottling things up. So, he's a hypocrite. Just great. Will's hands tremble as his fingers grasp the soft wool of the sweater. Why was it so hard to open his mouth and tell things to Hannibal? After everything they've been through, there's no reason to keep secrets, is there? Hannibal hasn't reacted negatively to anything he's brought up.

He can see Hannibal making an obvious effort to rein in the anger and listen to him. It's more than he deserves and Will wants to pull him into an embrace; he wants to lose himself in Hannibal's touch and scent and stop feeling and thinking all of this shit. (Alone, alone, hypocrite--)

When Hannibal speaks, Will listens and pretty much feels like an idiot. Molly had been his longest relationship, and Molly had been the one to sit him down and make sure the ship sailed smoothly (not that _he_ was ever that transparent, but as she was a single mother, her biggest concern was Walter and not him). Surely he can make _this_ relationship with Hannibal work. Weren't they soulmates and all that flowery shit? Will has the absurd idea of them being candidates for couples counseling, but thankfully he keeps it together and doesn't voice it. Back as a cop, it was often a joke to 'helpfully' suggest couples counseling whenever there was trouble in paradise.

Not that things have been a paradise, but there's been a sheen of complacency between them, like they exist inside a bubble. Will feels like he might float away. More than needing to be tethered to Hannibal, Will wishes them to walk in stride together. Hannibal claims he's been merely patient and trying to cultivate safety -- a home base for them of sorts. Will has never been great with patience or care and it's glaringly evident from this all.

His hands abandon the collar and Will steps closer, pulling his head away from Hannibal's grasp to rest his chin on Hannibal's shoulder instead. His arms come to Hannibal's waist.

"Sometimes I wish I could live inside of you," Will whispers, his hands pulling tightly on the sweater before bunching up the fabric in his fists. He doesn't even know if it makes sense, but he knows Hannibal usually does. He feels conflicted, frustrated and upset at himself and for some fucked up reason a little turned on. The vulnerability feels like a second skin he wants to claw off. The desire to lash out physically, or be lashed at - to experience anything physical and get out of his head - is strong but Will restrains himself. He'd look like he was having a tantrum if he did something.

* * *

This would have been unthinkable mere months ago. Hannibal can remember walking on eggshells, can remember Will's rage, the way he'd driven his fist hard against a mirror simply because he'd had no other emotional outlet. He can remember violence and hands at his throat and his teeth sinking into skin and Henri's neck snapping like a twig as Hannibal had stared Will down in a blind anger. Theirs will never be an easy partnership. There will always be pitfalls and danger, secrets and lies, manipulation and goading. Neither of them can be truly happy with complacency. They can court it for awhile - just long enough to fool those closest to them - and then it burns around them like parchment paper to a candle. A small spark is all it takes.

Only minutes ago, Hannibal had expected the spark to have happened. Yet as he watches Will's reaction to his words - watches the brief flicker of something like desperation behind Will's eyes - Hannibal knows he's hit the nail on its head. In the past, Will has always struggled with admitting his needs. Hannibal wonders if this will be any different, so when Will merely steps in closer, his trembling hands moving from Hannibal's collar to his waist, Hannibal watches him closely. The warmth is familiar and welcome despite his lingering anger, despite Will's loneliness. Hannibal is silent at first, then he merely slides his arms up and wraps them around Will, tightly. Somehow he believes Will needs to feel it.

"It would be simpler that way, would it not?" Hannibal asks as he dips his shoulder so Will can press in closer. "To live inside of me, to share my thoughts and experiences. To share sensation and never be alone again. Never doubt that what you want is also what I want." Hannibal breathes in his scent; the arousal isn't entirely surprising. He can feel that Will is tense under his hands, his grip on Hannibal's sweater tight, practically vibrating with a low tension that Hannibal knows he will need to soothe.

"But as that is not a physical possibility, communication is what it boils down to, Will. I _want_ you to talk to me, especially when you feel like you shouldn't. Provided you conduct yourself as respectfully as you can - within reason - I will not turn you away."

Hannibal turns his head then, pressing his nose to Will's hair. Over Will's shoulder, the shallots remain on the kitchen counter and the meat still needs to be tended to properly. Will is still more important, though, and Hannibal believes he knows where this is going, believes he knows what Will needs. Still, he can hardly claim to wish communication and simply _assume_.

"Now... I want you to tell me _exactly_ what you need from me at this moment, Will. Then you will give me a moment to ensure nothing spoils in the kitchen - seconds at most - and we will adjourn to the living room or wherever you feel you would rather be. Is this acceptable?"

* * *

When Hannibal returns the embrace, Will’s eyes slip shut. He's held tightly and Will imagines dissolving into Hannibal. Not fading, but simply merging into this man, touching every cell. Fuck melding with the Red Dragon, Hannibal would bind with him, like electrons shared between two atoms. (A covalent bond... Finding stability only through sharing with each other.) They've both been lonely in the past and Will wonders if Hannibal has been lonely _with_ him as they both fiercely guard a few secrets like dragons do with their hoard of treasure. Hannibal hadn't spoken about the nightmare and Will hadn't shared about his growing appetite. Neither one of them is blameless.

What Hannibal tells him makes sense. No matter what Will may want, Hannibal and he cannot ever be physically conjoined. Communication, however... He needs to open his mouth and share sooner rather than later because he really doesn't want to be seen as a hypocrite. (And he's a little afraid of what he may do during the next emotional outburst.)

When he feels Hannibal turn his head, Will grips at the sweater tighter, as if worried the older man would be pushing him away. Will's jaw clenches, but he doesn't protest. He forces himself to listen as Hannibal, predictably, asks him what he needs. And of course Hannibal informs him that he will tend to the food first (and quickly). It's understandable, but Will's not exactly happy about it. Yeah, he might not want to share Hannibal with _food_ , okay. Not right now at least.

What he needs... Will fidgets in Hannibal's hold and tries to sort through the various impulses in his mind. He wants to be struck hard enough that he's knocked off balance. He wants to slap Hannibal's beautiful face just to see the expression Hannibal would wear afterwards. He wants blood pumping fast through his veins. He wants to be on the edge; he wants the danger of being in the presence of a predator. He wants to be restrained and denied, but also to lash out in every direction and have Hannibal contain the explosion.

"Yeah, it's acceptable... I don't know if any of this makes sense though," Will starts, his voice tight. He pushes on. Communication. Trust. "But I sort of need us to be violent. I want to struggle against you. I want to hurt you and be hurt by you." He's only gotten more aroused from vocalizing this all and Will is blatant as he presses himself into Hannibal's own crotch.

"I want you to fuck me up, Hannibal. Will you do that?" His voice is lower on the question.

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that wishes simply to enfold Will in his arms and hold him until the risk of him shaking apart has been nullified. Despite how much Hannibal wishes to merely hold this man until he feels less unstable, he's also aware - given the trembling and squirming and the lingering anger between them - that this is not what Will needs. So Hannibal watches as Will fights to contain himself, a singularity attempting to minimize its own damage in the hopes it can forestall it until someone else can contain the explosion for him. And when Will speaks, his voice an odd mix of reluctant and agitated and desperate, Hannibal listens to him and goes very silent.

Will's voice is tight, as if he suspects Hannibal will deny him this request. But he still soldiers on and Hannibal is left looking at Will in silence, attempting to visualize just what Will wishes him to do. He wants violence - but Hannibal cannot seriously injure him - and he wants to struggle. Possibly to know that Hannibal can overpower him, can contain him the way he wishes to be contained. Being hurt and hurting Hannibal is another matter, one that sends something insidious creeping through Hannibal's chest that he acknowledges and controls. Trust Will to ask a known sadist to hurt him, but then, perhaps Will has other things on his mind. Hannibal feels the way Will presses himself against his chest, feels the grip of his hands in Hannibal's sweater. And while this entire moment is ill-advised, he cannot deny his own intrigue, nor the way his body wishes to instinctively respond to the way Will presses against him.

This can go one of two ways, but after a few moments of serious thought, Hannibal finally slides one of his hands up to curl in Will's hair. He strokes through it gently for a moment and then curls his fingers in it for a firm grip. He doesn't yank, but he steadily increases pressure until he knows it has to hurt. Only then does he lean in and press a deceptively gentle kiss to Will's cheek.

"Yes, I will." Then, after a second he adds, "No cuts to your face. Nothing that would require stitches. No passing out, I remember." No loss of limb, but Hannibal wouldn't do that anyway. It's Will's list of limits told to him so many months ago, but he's not forgotten.

With a firmer pull to Will's hair, Hannibal sighs. "I want you to let go so that I may finish here. Twenty seconds, Will. Stand here and wait for me, arms by your sides." Hannibal gives his hair a sharper tug before he withdraws, leaving Will with the lingering pain to sustain him as he pulls away from Will and does as he's said. It takes him the twenty seconds he'd allotted in order to put the vegetables away in the fridge and set the tenderloin in the oven to roast. It gives them over two hours at the heat he sets it at, and before Will can shake apart, Hannibal is back, reaching a hand out to press against the back of Will's neck. He strokes at first, then grips tightly, his fingers digging hard against sensitive muscle and tendon as he gives Will a small shove toward the living room. Yet even in the violence, Hannibal's care is present. He only squeezes as hard as he can without injury.

"You remember your safeword, just as I remember mine. I expect you to use it if you need to. Aside from that, you may _try_ to hurt me if you wish. I doubt you will get far."

* * *

Will doubts very much that what he's shared is actually what Hannibal _wants_ to do. Hannibal wants to hold him tightly until the shaking abates. Will knows this. (And it's not entirely an unpleasant idea.) Even so, Will has been honest in what he’s listed off. It's another case for vulnerability, for giving voice to what he wants is opening himself up for Hannibal to possibly deny him after the fact. Expectation can often lead to disappoint. He's trusting that Hannibal will comply and give him what he needs. (Hasn't he always?)

His trust isn't misplaced. Hannibal considers his request and when a hand comes to his hair, Will sighs. The sigh turns into a pent up groan when the grip intensifies. He kind of wants to jerk away when Hannibal's lips brush a kiss to his cheek, but Will doesn't. He doesn't want softness right now. He's rewarded with Hannibal agreeing and reminding Will that he remember the limits Will had shared those many months ago. Will also remembers Hannibal had said no permanent marks to his face or hands and Will is going to keep that in mind.

When prompted, Will reluctantly uncurls his fingers from Hannibal's sweater and backs up a step. His scalp stings, but it's _nice_. For a moment he crosses his arms - blatantly disobeying Hannibal's request - but as he watches Hannibal clean up, he rubs his face before relenting and waiting with his arms by his side. There's no reason to be antagonistic now. Will is rigid as he stands in the kitchen, pyjama pants tenting a little, but at least he doesn't count the seconds before Hannibal is done and back _with_ him. (Thank God.) He's shoved forward and Hannibal's parting comment - that he can _try_ to hurt him but likely won't get far - elicits a shiver. It probably shouldn't be arousing to think of being overpowered - it's never been a thing for Will in the past - but wasn't that true with a multitude of things?

When they get to the living room, Will turns around and faces Hannibal. There's a few feet in between them. His heart is steady and his hands fidget at his side. Because he doesn't quite know how to start, Will decides that it's time for some honesty, thinking that it may distract Hannibal.

"I know it's unwise, but I've fantasized about us biting and tearing flesh together," he says conversationally. Will then lunges at Hannibal, reaching out for his wrist with the intention of yanking Hannibal's arm behind his back.

* * *

The walk from the kitchen feels almost formal considering what Will has asked Hannibal to do once they reach the living room. He doesn't dislike the idea; Will needs this and Hannibal wants to facilitate a more open communication between them. Secrets are fine to a degree - he has no desire to divulge the reasoning behind his nightmare that night, just as he won't ask Will about his thoughts on Abigail - but the misunderstandings need to be addressed. If Will has felt alone in his darkness, has felt aimless and stressed like a wild animal lashing out blindly from an injury it doesn't understand, Hannibal can weather the storm to fix the injury and hopefully calm Will's self-destructive violence. This is the calm before a storm, yes, but the storm has been controlled. There are limits. There are invisible walls surrounding Will's violence to guide him back if he goes too far.

Silently Hannibal knows he'll need to address Will's aimless destruction in time. That time is not now.

When they come to a stop in the living room, Hannibal takes a quick look down at himself to double-check that he has no sharp buttons or anything Will could seriously injure himself on. Then he does the same for Will, looking him over carefully. It's calculating and _looks_ somewhat dismissive but Will needs him to fill this role. Hannibal can care in secret. So when Will turns to face him with an expression that seems to be bouncing between excitement and hesitation, Hannibal merely stands tall and waits. His posture is as relaxed as it ever is, baiting Will's first move.

He's not expecting it to be verbal, and the knowledge that Will has had such feral fantasies _does_ briefly distract Hannibal as intended. He blinks, drawing himself up short, and then Will moves, lunging with impressive speed that Hannibal wins out on by a thin margin. He allows Will to grab his wrist and begin to yank it back, but instead of buckling under the pressure, Hannibal moves _with_ Will and turns, jabbing a flat palm against the inside of Will's forearm to force his elbow into buckling. Then - almost effortless - Hannibal uses Will's momentum to spin him around and jerk him back roughly against his chest, one of Will's arms behind his back as Hannibal's forearm presses against Will's throat.

"Verbal distraction... cunning boy." Hannibal presses his arm tight to Will's throat, just enough to risk pain. He holds him there for a few moments and then suddenly his arm is gone and he's shoving Will towards the couch. He has no desire to see Will fall, but in this, he cannot be gentle. "Still rather sloppy, however. I did say I doubted you would get far in this. Your strength isn't in speed, it's in power, Will. Use it."

* * *

So, it doesn't go as planned. Will's not exactly surprised to have his first attempt be thwarted rather easily. He grunts in displeasure as Hannibal restrains him, his own arm pinned behind his back and Hannibal's chest. Hannibal's forearm presses against his throat (it's been so long since he was last properly choked). Will is fully hard now and he thrashes uselessly. He's not trying to escape, however. Will wants this. He wants the futile struggle. He wants the strain. He wants Hannibal powerful and unforgiving. (He wants to command, ' _Kill_ ' and point his finger, he wants to take off toward their prey _together_ \--)

The pressure to his throat increases and Will gasps out, "Yeah, your cunning boy." He pushes into Hannibal's forearm, chasing the familiar sensation.

 

But without warning, Hannibal releases him and then pushes Will away. Will stumbles, but doesn't fall. It takes him a moment to steady himself, but when he has, Will turns around and faces Hannibal again.

He's grinning a little when he asks, "You going to be my teacher now too? Lover, doctor, therapist. A man of many skills." The thought holds merit. Hannibal likely has a lot that he could teach.

Will takes off again, feigning to go for Hannibal's wrist again, only to raise his left hand and _slap_ him. Hannibal had said no permanent marks and so Will hasn't used much force. Still, the smack of his palm against Hannibal's cheek is loud and both sounds and feels scandalous. It does the job though and Hannibal seems momentarily dazed and pissed off enough that Will dashes around him to kick at his right calf -- at Jack's scar. He is a cunning boy, after all.

* * *

Will stumbles but he doesn't fall when Hannibal pushes him away. It's a good sign. While this is Will's request for violence, there is more to it than simply that and Hannibal is silently impressed with Will's balance after having been caught off guard. That Will turns to him with his sleep pants obviously tenting comes as no surprise. That there is a _grin_ on Will's face does give Hannibal pause, however. It drives the point home that this is something Will really _does_ want, though Hannibal had been able to glean that from the satisfied cast to Will's expression when he'd been left to struggle in Hannibal's arms. For all that Will wishes to dominate, he also needs the reminder that Hannibal does so out of choice, not need. This is that reminder. Proof that Hannibal is stronger, that he is _allowing_ Will dominance when it happens instead of the alternative.

Hannibal doesn't smile back, though there is a more satisfied glint in his eyes when Will asks him if he's to be his teacher. "It _is_ something I've been meaning to discuss with you, yes," Hannibal replies easily. Yet further discussion is cut off when Will suddenly darts at him again. Hannibal is too smart to believe that Will is actively going for his wrist again, but Will's raised hand gives him just enough pause to be confusing before suddenly Will's open palm catches his cheek and the loud smack rings out. A startled pain blossoms on his cheek, the skin already reddening, and Hannibal is left both dazed by the audacity and slightly startled by Will's unpredictability. Irritation rises hot in Hannibal's chest; slapping holds a level of degradation he had not been expecting.

It is precisely the distraction Will needs, though. Hannibal's ear is ringing, indignation slowing his response time, so while he does move to spin around when Will darts behind him, Will takes the opening he sees. Hannibal feels the blow to the back of his leg connect and an acute, licking agony climbs all the way up to his hip as the muscle seizes and then loses itself. Hannibal grunts tightly, pained but impressed as his leg gives out and he's forced to awkwardly drop to his knees as he reaches a hand back to grab at his leg. It's a good lesson for when he and Will kill again. Hannibal's leg is a vulnerable place. His stomach likely is too. And with that in mind, Hannibal abandons his leg to curl his arm around his abdomen preemptively.

'On his knees' is not 'down for the count', however. Will's steps are loud behind him and Hannibal only checks to make sure that the rug he's decided to do this on extends far enough that Will won't seriously injure himself. Then he shoots his free arm out and the side of his forearm collides hard with the back of Will's knee. He waits only until Will struggles to compensate with his other leg before turning, grabbing at the hem of Will's shirt, and Hannibal forcibly pulls him down onto the floor. He yanks hard enough to send Will awkwardly sprawling onto his back and Hannibal is on him in seconds, shoving Will back against the rug and grabbing both arms to pin him in place. Even Hannibal is breathing a little heavier after that. "Cunning boy indeed."

* * *

Slapping Hannibal seems borderline sacrilegious, an action to think on in private, to desire and fantasize about, but never one to _take_. It's likely why Will has wanted to do it -- the sheer audacity of such an action made it appealing. Will's intent isn't to disrespect Hannibal, but instead to push and test the boundaries. Isn't it always about _more_ and _closer_ with them? (And Hannibal letting him get away with these things to some degree?)

If slapping Hannibal is borderline sacrilegious, kicking at his scar on the calf is just plain dirty. But if Will's not strong or fast enough, this is what he must do. His hand has a slight sting from the slap but that's the least of his problems because Hannibal may be in pain and crumpling to his knees, but Hannibal is far from bested. That would be too easy. Will tries to kick at Hannibal's abdomen, but Hannibal is protecting it. In a flash Hannibal is retaliating -- one moment Will's off balance by a hard hit to the back of his is knee, and then the next he's yanked down.

It's with a disgruntled 'oof' that Will crashes to the ground and lands on his back. Hannibal scrambles on top of him and Will's hands are jerked above his head and held there. Will feels a little dazed by the sudden sprawl to the floor, his heart beating wildly within his chest as he blinks and gets his bearings. Once again, Will struggles against Hannibal's restraint, his hips bucking up uselessly and getting nowhere while his hands try to lift off from the floor. It's futile business, but he's not frightened. He stops fighting.

“Your cunning boy," Will corrects. "I should also probably start going to the gym." He then chuckles self-disparagingly. It's obvious that Hannibal has actually been doing _something_ , maybe weight training when alone. Will's never been nosy about it; he's simply enjoyed the results. But those results are having him get his ass kicked now. Not that he really minds because Will is still aroused by the alterations.

"You're sexy like this," Will then murmurs. "You like holding me down?"

* * *

Hannibal is capable of many things. Physical violence has always been one of them, though the bouts of physicality are typically contained. His life is separated out properly. He is reserved and controlled when he must be, and when it comes to killing or defending himself, Hannibal merely replaces one set of rules with another and the switch is seamless. The wires have only crossed a few times: in his youth, when violence and abandon had torn through him and violence had seemed a sweet ambrosia compared to monotony, and more recently with Will Graham. Hannibal recalls Budge and Jack, but more than that, he remembers tearing the heart out of Muskrat Farm with reckless abandon in order to reach Will in time. That is what Will does to him. As always, Will is the child who see the individual colors of paint on a palate and sets his hand in them, mixing them together to form something completely different.

Thoughts swirling over vulnerability and Will's influence, Hannibal's hands tighten on Will's wrists as he forces him down. Will struggles valiantly, twisting with all his core strength and bucking his hips in a way that indicates he's willing to fight dirty. Hannibal doesn't give him an opening. Instead he merely tightens his thighs around Will's hips and shoves him down forcibly. Tendons stand out on his wrists - under the scars - as Hannibal works, and when Will finally stops fighting, Hannibal is breathing harder than he'd expected. He's impressed.

He takes stock of his own injuries and deems them inconsequential. Will is far more interesting. Yet more interesting than that is the thought of those colors mixing under Will's hand. Hannibal has never tapped into this side of himself while aroused before. Sex and physical fighting have never mixed. Even with Will's hands around his throat, it had been a controlled violence. This feels messier.

' _You like holding me down?_ ' Hannibal looks down at Will, at the high flush to his cheeks, at the way he can feel the hardness in Will's pants. He tests the hold he has on Will's wrists contemplatively.

"Yes, I believe I do," Hannibal says, faintly surprised. "And yes, _my_ cunning boy, I'm impressed. Going for known weakness will do you in good stead." Hannibal tightens his grip on Will's hips, squeezing with his thighs until he knows it has to be uncomfortable, if not downright painful. Likewise, he increases his grip on Will's wrists.

"Have you had enough, or should I let you up and have you try again? You can do better."

* * *

Broken capillaries will lead to bruising, but Will doesn't mind. Bruises fade and heal and anything permanent tells of their possession and ownership of each other. The hurt is a reminder he's alive, and more importantly that his mate is _strong_ and _capable._ Wild things, they are. They may be biding their time, but they _will_ attack. They will be unleashed. Even if Hannibal seeks the calm and care, he gives this to him. Another gift (one he wants, for Will's asked for this). Hannibal is the ultimate giver, is he not? Will has his heart, his mind, his love. Will has safety and submission if done respectfully. Will has _acceptance_. ( _See_? Yes, he's been seen. He _is_ being seen.)

He is also being held down. Restrained. Feeling the swell of the struggle. He's not surprised that Hannibal likes their current positions. He would also like if their positions were reversed. Will knows one word will free him, so it's not daunting to be in a state where he's being overpowered. Hannibal pushes harder, thighs squeezing at his hips and hands gripping wrists tighter. Will groans at the lick of heat and pain the actions bring.

_'Have you had enough, or should I let you up and let you try again?...'_

"I'm not done yet," Will grits out. While he is starting to feel better - less like there's a scream that wants to burst forth - he wants to fight more. He's not worn out enough. He's released and Hannibal is the first to stand back up, albeit slowly. Will takes the offered hand. While there's the urge to attack while he's accepting help, Will doesn't. He smirks at Hannibal as they face off again. He likes this. Will doesn't know what that says about him, but he doesn't care.

For the next ten minutes Will tries his best to get one up on Hannibal. Will attempts to punch and kick at him, occasionally lunging and grappling with Hannibal. He goes for other weaker spots like the gunshot wound on Hannibal's abdomen. Will does get a few glances in, a few punches do connect, but most are blocked or dodged. They've both worked up a sweat by the time Will stands back up, panting, and holds up a hand to signal that he needs a break.

"Pretty good for an older man." He's smiling as he gives the comment, no malicious intent present. Will's a little sore, but it's a pleasant ache. His arousal has persisted, but he knows Hannibal is enjoying this as well.

* * *

When given a chance, Will Graham is a formidable man. It occurs to Hannibal as he helps Will back up onto his feet, silently delighting in the gritted, stubborn tone to his voice, that barring their moment on the bluff he has never actively seen Will fight. He's seen the evidence of him fighting. He'd seen Tier's body on his table, bloodied and broken and the corresponding marks on Will's fists matching like puzzle pieces. He'd seen Will cut him free of the jacket so kindly donated to him by Mason Verger above the pigs. He'd even seen evidence of Will's altercation with Chiyoh, now etched into faded scars across Will's face. He's never seen Will _fight_ before. He's seen him stalk, has seen him shoot, has seen him hurt, but he's never seen this visceral violence that he seems to wear so comfortably.

It's attractive and a good reminder that Will Graham is far more than he appears. Hannibal helps Will get centered. With a grin stretching wide and thrilling over Will's face and a small light in his own eyes, they dance. Hannibal knows how to fight, though there is something markedly different about fighting with Will. It isn't a show of strength or the quick calculations of showing weakness in order to get an opening. It's a different sort of dance. It's Will's shoulder tensing and Hannibal instinctively moving away from the punch only to get knocked by a sneaky ankle. It's Will's heavy breathing, the look of delighted desire so clear in his eyes and on his face, and it's something mainly physical, leaving intellectual discussion and mental stimulation behind. This is far more base. It's fists and instincts, a pounding pulse and deeper breaths and a sort of exhilaration at not only being alive, but at being alive with Will.

The gloves come off as the minutes crawl. Hannibal doesn't injure and he lets Will set the pace. For the most part Hannibal is able to deflect the blows, though Will does get a few in. He ducks and twists, hindered ever so slightly by the lingering aches and Will's blow to his calf. Of everything, that is what slows him enough for Will to manage a fairly solid punch to his side and another around his upper chest, near his shoulder. It's then that Hannibal realizes that Will isn't holding back and he ups the ante, makes himself purposefully harder to hit. Each time Will has begun to wear himself out Hannibal moves, tripping or moving quickly enough so that Will stumbles. He pins Will four times in the ten minutes, holding him firmly, securing him to the floor on his stomach once and on his back three times. His fingers digging bruises into Will's wrists and his forearms, and his knees pressing bruises to Will's thighs.

By the time Hannibal helps Will back up onto his feet and Will holds up a hand to signal a stop, Hannibal is breathing as hard as Will is, one arm hovering over his stomach as it has been for some time simply to keep from any injury to _that_ wound. Will's smiling, looking much more at ease than he had been, and Hannibal cannot resist the smallest of smiles in return as he breathes in deeper and enjoys the mingled scent of sweat and arousal suffusing the living room.

"Impudent," Hannibal tuts as he straightens again, reaching up to rake his fingers back through his slightly messier hair. He hasn't allowed himself to look like this, nor has he seen Will like this since the night on the bluff. It's thrilling. "Though impressive. You grew far more confident closer to the end."

* * *

Henri hadn't put up any challenge for Hannibal. Maybe a few strands of hair out of place, but nothing that got Hannibal really exerting himself. Henri had been an insect for Hannibal to squash -- not that Will has been that much of a challenge, but he's at least put up a fight. They've only been going at it for less than twenty minutes, but Will can at least see his effect on Hannibal. They regard each other, faces slightly flushed, breathing harder, clothing sticking to their skin and hair mussed. Will's felt Hannibal's erection before now seeing evidence of it. Had it been during the third time while pinned down that he had noticed and pointedly pushed against it? Doesn't matter.

Will's been both an observer and participant in murder and he doesn't care for merely watching. He thought maybe it could be enough to point Hannibal and use him as a weapon, but his dreams and hallucinations say otherwise. He refuses to listen to the whispers of doubt, because he still can remember that version of himself that said killing was the ugliest thing in the world. Was his becoming merely the equivalent of a midlife crisis? Murder instead of a sportscar and Hannibal the Cannibal instead of a pretty younger wife?

Will catches that little smile on Hannibal's face and it makes him feel warmth now on the inside. "Finally made you work up a little sweat, huh?" Will jokes as he pulls off his mostly soaked undershirt. It's dropped to the floor as he advances on Hannibal. Will wants to run his fingers through Hannibal's silvering hair so he does so. He messes it up more with his smile fading into a look of consideration. Now what?

Will removes his hands from Hannibal's hair. "I'm going to take a quick shower. You can check up on dinner stuff? Then could we... Could you..." Will's eyebrows draw in and he pushes his own damp hair off his forehead. Honesty. Communication. "I want you to use your fingers. In me. At least - you know - I want to see if I like it at all."

It was about time, right?

* * *

Will is the one more visibly affected between them, his undershirt almost soaked through with sweat despite the ever so slight chill to the air. Hannibal cannot claim to be unaffected though; while his sweater had provided some padding to Will's successful blows, he believes he will forgo it the next time Will requests something like this. The added heat is limiting and there is a psychological pride in being able to _see_ the result of one's attacks on bare skin. Hannibal can still feel the slight tingling in his cheek that tells him Will's slap will settle into a faint bruise in places, but Hannibal doesn't rule that out again. A slap is not a permanent mark, and while Hannibal doesn't wish to leave the house with visible bruises, a faint one is simple enough to cover.

Hannibal watches as Will strips off his undershirt and inclines his head in slight acknowledgement. "You began to learn patterns near the end," Hannibal allows. He doesn't tell Will that he's right, but the beaded sweat on his forehead says it all for him. At first Hannibal expects another volley of blows when Will steps in close. But when he does nothing more than reach up to stroke his fingers through Hannibal's hair, Hannibal quickly realizes that the moment has passed. Will feels calmer, less likely to shake apart, his more violent thoughts quelled into a gentle whisper in the background. Hannibal considers the touch and then merely gives in. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch; it's the equivalent of lowering his hackles.

His breathing has mostly calmed by the time Will's hand drops. One glance is all Hannibal needs to see that Will is warring with something. He merely stays quiet, making no move to rush Will into speaking. Yet when the request finally does come, Hannibal stands a little straighter with the softest of inhales. On another, it would have been nothing. On him, it's clear shock that immediately melts into something reserved but wanting. He swallows after a few seconds, then wets his lips. This is not a request that he needs to consider.

"Yes, Will," he says, cutting Will off from further stammering, "we could do that, if you're certain you'd like to try."

The very thought is somewhat dizzying, even if Will decides it isn't something he fully enjoys. That Will is even considering it says it all. "Go shower. I will tend to dinner and likely take a quick shower myself. Where would you like to do this? The bedroom?" Possibly too intimate. "Back here, on the sofa? Wherever you would feel most comfortable." A pause. "With the exception of the kitchen."

* * *

Although the reaction is slight, he's surprised Hannibal. Well, that makes two of them. Will's thought about it, about doing _more_. It's hard not to when he's done it to Hannibal and observed that Hannibal seemed to enjoy being fingered. He has no reservations that taking fingers or a dick up his ass equates to being the 'woman' in the relationship. Hannibal certainly isn't womanly. Doesn't matter who does what, it's just them. Still, it's daunting as nothing has ever been up there before, but Will has proof that it _can_ feel good. He doesn't think Hannibal is lying to him or anything.

"Really? No first time fingering in the kitchen?" It's a joke and he grins at Hannibal to cover up his nerves. The grin doesn't last long as Will thinks about the question of where they should do it. No, not the bedroom. The bedroom makes it feel like something more should happen. But here on the sofa is more casual, like it should be no big deal. He'd given his first blowjob in the living room, so why not this too?

"Here is good." Will gives a hesitant smile before turning around and heading upstairs.

It's a purposeful shower, cleaning all his nooks and crannies specifically for Hannibal. Will's lost his hard-on as he goes through what he'll need to grab and bring downstairs - lube, towels, maybe a pillow? What kind of position would he be in? On his back? Or maybe his stomach? ... Hands and knees? Uncomfortable anticipation twists through him, but the physical exertion and aching muscles keep him grounded through it. He's halfway done rinsing bodywash off when Hannibal enters the bathroom and begins undressing like this is any other shower they've shared.

This isn't any other shower though. This is an intentional shower with something significant happening afterward. Excitement shoots through him as he blatantly stares at Hannibal through the clear shower curtains. A naked Hannibal is nothing new. But after the roughhousing, the image has Will again thinking about how it felt to be restrained -- about violence and admiring Hannibal's musculature. He gets hard again far too quickly. When Hannibal draws the curtain back and steps in, Will turns away, pretending to be lost in the task of rinsing himself.

* * *

Here is good. Hannibal glances back at the sofa with a thoughtful expression. He's still breathless, still aching from the blows Will had landed, but the pain adds something else into the equation. It's more than simple shocked arousal now. It's anticipation. And one look at Will shows him that he seems to feel the same way. The smile Will sends Hannibal is hesitant, all bluster and nerves with an undercurrent of excitement, and Hannibal nods his understanding, simply watching the sheen to his skin and the play of muscles over his back as Will turns away and heads for the stairs.

Hannibal takes a few moments to center himself, to lift an arm up and wipe the sweat from his forehead. Still breathing a little heavier, he turns on one heel and walks into the kitchen again with only a faint stiffness to his leg. The kick had been enough to make the entirety of his calf ache in sympathy, but instead of being irritated Hannibal is only proud. Will is not Jack Crawford, nor is he a man to wildly flail fists. He's calculating enough to go for a visible weakness. A previous injury, an exposed back... a vulnerable underbelly...

The memory of the way Will's hands had all but slid in Dolarhyde's blood washes gently over Hannibal's senses as he cleans his hands. He quickly checks the tenderloin and dials back the heat to cook slower. They'll have plenty of time, and the meat will soften more with more time in the oven. The sauce, Hannibal decides, can be quickly made later. Right now he has far more important things on his mind.

Hannibal makes his way upstairs. Technically he could take a shower downstairs, but Will has allowed this in the past and Hannibal has no reason to think that he won't now. He steps into the bathroom and - after glancing appreciatively at Will through the clear curtain - Hannibal reaches down and pulls his sweater off. He undresses on his own time, setting the clothing into the hamper to wash later, for it's definitely dampened by sweat. A quick glance down at himself shows slightly pink marks left behind on his side and shoulder that will bloom into truly impressive bruises later. His calf is already bruised. Hannibal admires Will's ingenuity before walking over and pulling the shower curtain open. He'd seen Will looking; he knows Will is aware of his presence.

Hannibal allows himself a moment to admire the way the body wash traces its way down Will's back as he steps into the shower behind Will. Then Hannibal merely reaches over and sets his hands gently on Will's hips, stepping in closer but not enough to press up against him from behind. He bends to press a kiss to Will's shoulder and is pleased to see that Will is already hard. Any fear Hannibal had had regarding Will talking himself out of this promptly vanishes.

"How do you feel?" Hannibal asks, moving his hands down to the forming bruises on Will's hips. "The heat should help any soreness."

* * *

Okay. He's going to shower. Finish showering, technically. Hannibal is going to shower, too. It's nothing extraordinary, nothing out of the norm. Just let the water rinse off the remaining suds, play it cool, be fine -- and then Will's very much aware of Hannibal's presence stepping in behind him. As hands come to rest on his sore hips, Will clenches his jaw to try and rein himself in. (What happened to play it cool and be fine? Dashed so quickly...)

It doesn't really work. Hannibal's proximity and touch has Will's heartbeat picking up and awareness of what he's requested skyrocketing. It’s not like he could forget, but it also comes after the admissions in the kitchen and the fighting in the livingroom. Hannibal's been patient, but not content to be complacent. They've worked and built an existence here, crawling out of the ocean, a second chance at life. Will's not alone. (' _As always, I am standing right beside you'_ echoes in his head.) Hannibal's let them fight in the livingroom, let Will feel a struggle and taste a contained violence. The promise of _more_ and _again_ resonates between them, a pact that he can feel in his bones.

"Feel like I want you to touch me, Hannibal," Will answers, his tone a bit airy in his desire. He steps back to press into Hannibal, his skin wet and soapy. Will tilts his head back on Hannibal's shoulder. He's unabashedly pushing his ass against Hannibal's crotch.

"Feel like I want you to touch me _everywhere_." It's a blatant reminder that Will hasn't forgotten what he's asked for. He's wants to be receptive to this new step forward, he wants Hannibal to have more freedom.

Maybe Will's been a little caught up in Hannibal submitting. Maybe he's been too focused on perceived imbalances and injustices. Will had thought he'd been doing a good job being honest, but being honest, being open and trusting Hannibal is likely something Will is going to have to work on every fucking day. Nothing worthwhile is easy and Will knows unconditional love and acceptance is fucking worth it.

* * *

There is a clear charge between them, something low and electric that Hannibal feels when his palms settle on Will's hips. He feels the way Will stills and simply waits, and when Will answers, pressing back against his front, Hannibal feels a lick of sensation shoot through him, feels a low shiver of desire tempt him. It's not a direct answer and Will knows it, but it says enough that Hannibal will let it slide. This is a mix of roles. There is no clearly defined dominance in this, nor is Will submitting. This - Will asking and Hannibal planning to give - puts them on more equal ground and very plainly etches a new set of rules in place. Even with Will's request to be more dominant, it will not be _always_. Dominance and submission are roles they adapt as needed--- a band stretching to accommodate more before it inevitably relaxes back into its original shape.

Hannibal's hands slide from Will's hips around to his front, palms splaying wide over Will's abdomen and circling his scar. He turns his head to press a kiss to Will's exposed throat when Will leans his head back on Hannibal's shoulder, and he allows Will to hear the hitched breath he draws in when his ass presses back pointedly against his skin. Hannibal is almost as hard as Will is, and that's quickly changing with the small movements of Will's hips---the trust Will is showing him now. Water runs over them both and Hannibal shivers at the confirmation that Will still wants what he'd asked for downstairs. Time apart hasn't changed that.

This is easily the most open Will has been with him in some time, his body wanting but still lazily relaxed. Hannibal lets himself think on how alone Will had likely been feeling, assuming that Hannibal had been complacent instead of patient. What a vast chasm Will must have been feeling between them, a wild animal forced to play domestic, a muzzle around his maw and chains keeping him docile. Now, still aching from the consensual fighting, Will's arms and elbows raw from where he'd fallen on the rug and Hannibal had pinned him down, Hannibal holds him tighter and scrapes his teeth gently over Will's throat, a hint of the violence from downstairs, a reminder that nothing has changed on his end either.

"You need only ask, Will," Hannibal says lowly, and his hands move from Will's scar up his chest, languidly mapping out his skin. One hand slides up to wrap around Will's throat and gently squeeze, but not enough to cut off his air, merely enough to hint at the violence Will seems to crave.

"Do you feel more settled? Would you care to spar more frequently in the future?"

* * *

Will's never thought of himself as a very sexual being before. He's never really tried to seduce anyone or indulge in overtly sexual behavior before like flirting, lowering his voice or moving in a deliberate way to attract the eye. He's always been kinda twitchy, considered his looks average, his quirks annoying and his personality difficult to deal with. Sex had been a pretty straightforward affair, but like many things, this all was _before_ Hannibal.

Now, Will's discovered a more sexual side of himself. He may not be the best at being smooth and composed, but he can let go and give into the more carnal desires now. Hannibal is a very giving lover and this has facilitated Will becoming more confident in his own abilities and in _them_. So when Hannibal's hand slides from a hip to his belly - to his scar - and fingers spread over his skin, Will doesn't try to be quiet. He groans at the contact - at the touch and respect paid to the poignant mark. Will sighs at the kiss paid to his neck, eyelids fluttering a moment before shutting. Hannibal is hard against his ass cheeks and normally this isn't a position Will has let himself be in, but it _is_ alright.

(They're alright. They're fine. Always more, closer, always--)

Hannibal may still be thinking on the kitchen admissions, but Will's own mind is fairly hushed. His body feels free and loose, liberated even. It's an interesting mix because there's very much a thrumming of arousal, the strain of wanting, but Will's in no rush to chase after it. Teeth graze his throat and a gasp falls from his mouth. Heat races through him and all that he's focused on is the beat of the water against his skin and the singular unyielding presence behind him. That presence _has_ him. Holds him. Supports him. Hannibal's voice sounds so fucking good, warm and _his._ There's no disappointment, no anger, just the fucking reservoir of understanding and love that Will thinks he may drown in one day. He jerks when a hand closes around his throat for it's been awhile since all-out choking has transpired. He doesn't even care that the sound that he makes is akin to a whine and that he lifts off his heels to press into that hint of pressure. (He's the bitch in heat now and he doesn't care.)

"Yeah, I feel better," Will finally answers and he rubs against Hannibal's cock again, reveling in how hard Hannibal feels against him. "Quiets the scream, you know?" He purposefully moves so Hannibal's dick slides between the cleft of his ass.

"You going to touch me, baby?"

* * *

Hannibal cannot recall the last time he felt Will this relaxed against him. Perhaps that day on the couch with Will curled up against his chest, hands buried in the softer fabric of Hannibal's sweater, or before that, a few times following sex with Will gazing down at him in open, blissful content. Certain words have never fallen from Will's lips but he requests them from Hannibal sometimes, a reassurance, a reminder. There's no need to have them said back. Not yet. Not when they are etched like slashed, red lines into Will's skin every time his eyes fall closed in Hannibal's presence, every time he sighs and offers more of his throat despite having seen Hannibal rip one out before, and every time Will lets Hannibal's hand splay over scars he'd created. He trusts Hannibal not to reopen them, not to _hurt_ him again, and that trust is humbling as there are some days even Hannibal wonders if the trust has been properly placed.

He has no doubts this day. Despite the anger downstairs, despite the remaining sting of Will's words, Will is quiet and relaxed, his expression close to blissful, his mind quieted. Exercise tends to offer an outlet for violent urges and with Will cooped up and recovering, he's not been given a chance to explore such an avenue. Hannibal makes a silent mental note to add more movement and sparring into their weeks; as beautiful as Will is when so reckless and hurting, Hannibal enjoys this quiet trust as well.

He drinks in every sound Will makes, every soft groan and sigh -- the whine he can feel with his hand more than hear out loud. Hannibal's breathing hitches when Will moves back against him. This is not a position Will tends to allow and the hint of possibilities is enticing. Hannibal's hand carefully secures itself around Will's throat, mindful of his trachea, of the carotid he doesn't wish to put pressure on. He presses just enough to grant Will that addicting sensation of lightness that oft accompanies a lack of oxygen but not enough to make him struggle. Instead Hannibal merely presses kisses - soft one moment and biting the next - to Will's shoulder and enjoys the way he can feel Will's voice through his throat.

"Tell me when that scream begins to build again, and I will help you quiet it," Hannibal promises lowly, though his voice is slightly strained. He can feel a tempting heat he's never dared touch properly and Will is relentless in his seduction, in his lazy desires. Hannibal permits himself a roll of his hips, feeling skin slide against skin, and he recalls Will rutting against him like this the first time they'd gone further. His free hand falls down, fingers just barely grazing the side of Will's cock at Will's prompting, but Hannibal suspects _this_ isn't the touching Will had been prompting. He considers for a few moments, weighing the options, but in the end he cannot help his own curiosity, his own impatience.

"And yes. I am. Is that something you want, Will?" Hannibal slides his hand away from Will's cock and instead moves it down. He cups Will for only a moment before moving beyond, fingers skirting along his perineum as they move back. The angle is awkward, his wrist bent, but he likes this, enjoys feeling Will lean back against him for support. Not even Hannibal is composed enough to hold back a softer sound in the back of his throat when his fingers tentatively trace further back, his index finger just barely touching Will's hole, feeling his heat. They'll adjust for a better angle soon, but this is enough for now.

"You're certain?"

* * *

When that familiar hand tightens around his neck, Will squeezes his eyes shut. The constriction is familiar, the lack of oxygen is familiar. His heart beats faster and Will is caught between wanting to push into the grip on his throat or grind against Hannibal's cock. It's all a sensory rush, and _Hannibal._ Will distantly recalls being bothered by the idea of submitting or seeming needy. Such hesitations seem absurd _now_. It's just Hannibal, his focus narrowed onto one man and Will knows Hannibal sure as shit won't judge him. If Hannibal could submit, he can be wanton and desperate.

A mouth comes to his shoulder and soft kisses are intermingled with biting. (' _Rough or gentle_?' Days earlier he'd asked Hannibal that question...) Hannibal offers to help quiet him, but Will must ask. Months ago, after the hallucination in the kitchen, Will had asked for that very thing. It had been their first foray into choking. He'd asked again in the spare bedroom after discovering the brand and courting the very idea of Hannibal submitting to him. Will's asked for things since then (no duplicity, a date, a suit, Hannibal to submit) but he's not particularly reached out about this -- about a scream that echoes in his skull, a desire for--

Will nods as best as he can and then shudders as his dick finally gets some attention. It's brief attention, and it's not really what he'd been asking for. Hannibal knows this, of course. When Hannibal's hand moves _lower_ , Will spreads his legs wider in an act of... Submission? An invitation? Will's not quite certain. He's struggling for breath and sore, yet he's incredibly aroused. When fingers travel behind his balls and against very sensitive slick skin, Will gasps and tenses in Hannibal's hold. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's strange, but he still leans back against Hannibal to allow the older man slightly better access.

And then a finger brushes against his asshole and he jerks and his eyes blink open. It's now more strange, a tantalizing tease, a sensation that makes him want to fidget away but not necessarily stop.

' _You're certain?'_

Some mix of a strangled laugh and a moan leaves Will's mouth. "Oui," is all he says, his hands are fists by his sides as he tries to stay still and present for what's to come.

* * *

Hannibal wonders whether or not Will would have ever permitted this had he not seen Hannibal do it first. Perhaps, after reassurances and gentle pushing, he would have permitted it, but reluctantly, nervously, and likely with no small amount of disbelief that something like this could feel good. Yet seeing Hannibal during the times they've had sex, seeing proof that despite Will's perceived discomfort he's been able to not only feel pleasure but sustain it by being touched and stretched so intimately has likely done its job. Will is curious and while he may still be nervous or uncertain, his curiosity has currently won out. Maybe it's the arousal, or maybe it's the lull in his thoughts, the quiet of his mind, but Will settles against him willingly, nodding. It's clear his breathing is constricted but Hannibal monitors it carefully, relaxing his hold every now and then to allow Will some time as his thumb traces over the side of Will's throat, stroking gently and soothing. It's a careful balance and Hannibal feels heat slide through him at the knowledge that Will is allowing this even now. That Will _trusts_ him.

Not willing to shatter this trust, Hannibal takes great care to allow Will to track the movements of his fingers. The water beats down on the both of them and Will gasps beautifully as Hannibal's fingers slide back. The first touch prompts an odd but telling reaction from Will's body, a small shift like he's considering moving away followed immediately by a quiet sound of pleasure at Hannibal's inquiry. Will is certain he wants this to continue, and Hannibal hasn't the wish to argue. There's little he can do like this; using soap to ease his way inside would eventually be painful and introduce harsher chemicals to Will's body, and water is out of the question. There's nothing that says he can't touch, however, can't feel.

With Will's legs spread and Hannibal's cock pressed between his ass cheeks, the head of it rubbing against Will's lower back whenever Will shifts just so, Hannibal simply allows himself to indulge. He uses both arms to brace Will against his chest, keeping him up even as he leans off balance to make the angle easier. It's difficult not to get lost in sensation. Will's body is hot and responsive and Hannibal delights simply in touching him. His fingers move back over the heat, two at first before he decides to make it simpler. He spreads Will just enough with his index and ring finger so that his middle can touch and circle as he wishes.

He's _hot_ there and Hannibal aches at the mere imagined tightness. He strokes slowly, moving in small circles designed to engage Will's nerves, to heighten his awareness and the sensitivity. Hannibal rolls his own hips again, only once, and breathes a softer sound against Will's shoulder as he kisses it again.

"You feel perfect, Will. I've got you. Just relax and focus on the sensation."

* * *

Underneath Hannibal's hand is a scar -- another thing Will's requested and been given. He still has more scars due to injuries than gifts from Hannibal's mouth, but perhaps in time the scales will tip. Hannibal varies the constriction on his neck and it serves to keep Will delightfully on edge -- one moment he will have more difficulty, the next the pressure lessens and oxygen intake is easier. While he's choked Hannibal before, Will doesn't really trust himself to be able to do it with such expertise. Will has the fleeting thought that he does actually trust Hannibal enough that he'd let him squeeze until he went unconscious. Isn't his life Hannibal's now too?

At some point it's became a romantic notion to die at Hannibal Lecter's hand. Will has a vague memory of confessing something about that, about wanting to be consumed by Hannibal. It had been during the weird headspace and the glove-tapping business, so naturally it hasn't been really discussed. And on some twisted level it's a perverse longing that's persisted, but it's not what will come to be. Hannibal wishes him alive - thriving - and perhaps they're not quite there yet, but one day.

The first time they showered together, Hannibal had held him of his balance -- the risk of falling had been there, but Hannibal hadn't let him. Will can remember the burn of petty jealousy concerning Alana and him blurting out, ' _You still fucked her when you haven't even fucked me yet!'_ He'd been a right mess back then, all conflicted urges and impulses, but afraid to love. Will knows he's at least a bit better now -- not resistant to his feelings for Hannibal at any rate.

The touch is difficult to withstand. _Down_ _there_ is apparently extremely sensitive and he squirms against the gentle exploration. No sound or real action of protest comes though. He's asked for this. Hannibal obliges and Will's leaned back and has spread his legs a bit. Despite the spikes of sensation and weirdness, Will doesn't want it to stop.

"Hard to relax," Will gasps out. It's true. He has a new appreciation for Hannibal being able to fucking lie there and take it. Will feels jittery and tense, but not at all in a bad way. For all the good it will do, he does close his eyes and _try_ to relax.

"God, I have no idea how you--" A particular pass of a fingertip has Will crying out and shaking. Whatever he was about to say likely wasn't important.

* * *

Will has always been a beautifully responsive man. He's never been content to sit quietly idle while something's being done to him. From deep gasps and whines of pain to low growls and moans of pleasure, he's always been vocal. He's been just as responsive physically but Hannibal has found that Will's responses to pain and pleasure often mix together. He can recall Will clutching him desperately when he'd given him his grin, just as he can recall Will clutching him desperately a few days ago when he'd been driving into Hannibal's body, on the edge of pleasure. Hannibal's hand gentles upon Will's throat, stroking the line of it and brushing over the rise in the center that twitches whenever Will makes a sound and bobs when he swallows.

The admission - that it's hard to relax - comes as no surprise. Hannibal hums a soft sound of acknowledgement and turns his head enough to press a soft kiss to Will's exposed throat.

"It's all right. Barring certain places on the human body, this one holds one of the densest collection of nerves. It's far more sensitive than most assume, which is why it's important not to rush." Hannibal stills simply to give Will a few moments so that he can pull himself back together. He watches quietly as Will closes his eyes, and only when Hannibal feels some of the tension drain from Will's body does he start again.

Standing is likely making this more difficult, keeping Will's body somewhat tense out of necessity, but the warmth of the water is a balm for sore muscles, and it means that when Hannibal's finger slides back and presses just a little, the cry Will lets out echoes off the walls. Hannibal hums his satisfaction and the fingers of his free hand slide just enough to trace the outline of the scar on Will's neck. Reveling in the intimacy and in just how sensitive Will is, Hannibal holds Will a little tighter and shivers as he rocks his hips, taking his own pleasure in the closeness of Will's body and how responsive Will is like this. Even if Will finds penetration not to his liking, the fact that he likes _this_ is enough to open a few more doors.

"You have no idea how I _what_ , Will?" Hannibal asks, though he finds he already has some idea. With Will shaking against him, Hannibal presses his cheek to the side of Will's neck, nuzzling in closer. "If this feels good, imagine for a moment how your tongue must have felt." If it had come as a surprise to Will that Hannibal had liked it as much as he had, he doubts Will is surprised now.

* * *

Will's not especially interested in an anatomy lesson, but he says nothing in reply to Hannibal's comment about nerves and whatnot. Will _is_ surprised that something like this could have him shaking and twitchy and in an entirely pleasurable way. Until the last time, with belts and collars, and his tongue inside of Hannibal, Will's not been too much of a tease to Hannibal. Now that he's been introduced to the sensation, Will is definitely going to experiment a little bit more. Scratch that, he's going to be ruthless because Hannibal is preaching about it being important to not rush and the idea of this being drawn out seems distressing on some level. Will tries to swallow down his apprehension and not worry about it.

Eyes closed, he focuses on the feel of Hannibal's hand on his throat, the arm wrapped around supporting him, and of course the peculiar almost _too-much_ feel of Hannibal's fingers against his hole. The position they're currently in is somewhat awkward, likely not suited for this. It's hardly worth complaining about, especially when Hannibal presses his dick closer and Will can make out just how hard Hannibal is.

What he does want to complain about is Hannibal teasing him about not finishing his question. Hannibal is a prick and that both know what he was getting at. He's not going to repeat it. Will's simply surprised that Hannibal lays pretty still when being fingered. Big deal.

 _'If this feels good, imagine for a moment how your tongue must have felt.'_ The statement, for some reason riles Will up and he tenses. He has no clear idea why though. He doesn't want to imagine that. This is difficult enough to withstand. Maybe he suddenly feels shy about talking about _this_ when _he's_ the one it is happening to. It's obvious that it feels good. Must he talk about it? Shit. Wasn’t he the one that started commenting about it though? He doesn't want to be a goddamn hypocrite (again). Will knows Hannibal has no malicious intent in his statements or questions, but it doesn't help his sudden agitation.

"Yeah yeah, whatever. Hurry up," he grits out. "Please?"

* * *

It's interesting to be able to feel Will tense the way he does. There's no question about it; Hannibal mentions what Will had done a few days ago and he feels Will's muscles tense against him. While Will's eyes are closed, Hannibal doesn't need to see them to read him, and the agitation is apparent. As intimate as this is, he wonders at Will's response, musing over the possible reasons for his sudden discomfort. The answer is relatively simple to reason out. The focus is on Will, on _his_ pleasure, and his responses. When the opposite is the case, he likely doesn't feel watched or like his reactions are being monitored. It's curious. Hannibal can't tell if it comes from a place of embarrassment or shame.

In response, Hannibal gentles his touch and the press of his lips to Will's shoulder is almost apologetic. It's likely that Will feels on edge simply from the teasing; he's rarely shown an interest in it save for the few times he's found himself fascinated by a response Hannibal has shown. That Hannibal enjoys teasing him is likely unsettling to some degree so when Will merely asks for more, his voice tight, Hannibal presses just a little harder but doesn't push in.

"I can't, Will," Hannibal says calmly, his tone skirting around apologetic without actually landing on it. Instead he merely presses closer and allows his teeth to gently scrape against Will's shoulder. "Not here. I can only touch; soap and water make poor lubricant and I will not hurt you like that. If the touch and teasing is too much, you're allowed to tell me. We can simply finish washing and adjourn to the sofa, as you wished." Hannibal eases his finger away, though with some reluctance. The last thing he wishes to do is push Will into the state of mind he'd so often fallen into before. Defensive, angry, uncertain, and lashing out is not how he wants this to go, particularly not after such an active time downstairs.

"Tell me what you want, Will."

* * *

Hannibal obliges and Will groans low from the harder press of a finger to his hole. It doesn't last though. Hannibal starts being practical, like a goddamn sex ed teacher or something. Will is not thinking rationally. Soap and water are not equivalent to real lube. Okay, fine. Hannibal can't actually _do_ much more than tease him. Makes sense. He understands it all, but his desire and the sudden threat of irritation are hardly reasonable. But then the teasing touch ceases altogether and Will finds the loss of stimulation very disconcerting.

Instead of answering the direct question, Will latches onto the assertion of him not being able to handle what had been transpiring. "The touch and teasing aren't too much," he says shakily and he makes to pull away from Hannibal, his eyes opening.

"Move back, will you?" Hannibal refrains for a moment, but likely assumes the path of least resistance is best to take here and he backs up in the tub. Will looks over his shoulder, his cheeks flush now from arousal instead of physical exertion.

"Keep doing it, but just vary it a little every now and then," Will instructs and he bends forward, his head coming to tuck into the corner of the bath where a washcloth lies. He's effectively displaying his ass for Hannibal, but also pushing Hannibal out of the direct shower stream. Sex stuff in the shower always seemed easier in pornos or the movies. In reality it was much harder. Even so, Will is going to prove that he can take it. He's going to push himself and trust.

* * *

The request to move back has Hannibal going still. When Will initially draws away, he merely moves his hands away with reluctance, allowing Will to carve out his own path here, to dictate or display what he wants to be done. Yet the instruction to step _away_ from Will gives Hannibal pause. He looks at him quietly for a moment, frowning in mild confusion, but in the end, Will is correct. Hannibal decides not to argue when Will is already clearly a little agitated and does as told, sliding his hands away from Will's skin entirely as he takes a step back, out of the spray.

He's curious when Will looks back at him, flushed with arousal. It's a beautiful look on him -- skin alight with heat and arousal, his pupils blown ever so slightly, his eyes lidded with need. Hannibal still waits for further instruction. As much as Will is asking this of him, this is still Will's call. So the direction - when it comes - is enough to send an aching twist of arousal through him. Hannibal wets his lips and nods, but there's very little that can properly prepare him for the image Will makes when he suddenly bends forward. Hannibal watches the shift of Will's muscles, the individual knobs of his spine shifting under the muted light in the shower, and watches with greater heat as Will spreads his legs. It's a provocative display and Hannibal is seized with a very real desire to drop to his knees and taste, but he holds it back.

Instead Hannibal merely lets out a slower breath and reaches out, settling one hand on the small of Will's back while the other traces down between his cheeks. The angle is significantly easier like this and Hannibal swallows. "Alright. You look stunning, Will." It needs to be said, for all Will generally doesn't know how to handle hearing it. Hannibal moves in just close enough to feel Will's heat and then slides his fingers back down. He skims two over Will's hole at first before again focusing on just one, tracing the line of heat with a near-reverence before doing as Will had said. He varies his touch, feather-light one moment, then firmer, and then eventually pushing enough that were he so inclined, he'd likely be able to move his finger inside. He doesn't do it, not with water, but that doesn't mean that the sensation of Will's body shuddering and reacting isn't addictive. Hannibal slides his fingers down just enough to press gently to Will's perineum, massaging slow as his thumb traces his hole instead.

"One day I intend to return the favor, if you'll allow it. To use my mouth. When you're more used to the sensation."

* * *

This is a position Will never thought he'd consent to be in let alone be the one to instigate it. It holds a little embarrassment to be bearing his ass to Hannibal in such a blatant way. Will knows if their positions were reversed _he'd_ enjoy it. It's embarrassing because it's _new_. It's pretty easy to understand. His ass hasn't really been a thing for them, barring the little fantasy sharing exercise days prior, but Hannibal hadn't even been specific. Will knows Hannibal wants to touch him everywhere, to explore and be intimate in every possible way. Will understands the sentiment, he's been allowed the privilege and now it's Hannibal's turn.

(He can do this. Closer. More. Just in a different way than he's been used to.)

When the hand comes to his back, Will tenses in anticipation. Hannibal's compliment would usually spur a negative reaction - a roll of his eyes or a snort - but it slips by him. He registers the word 'stunning' and that it's been used in conjunction with him (and his ass in the air waiting), but he merely lets it slip away. It hardly matters right now. What does matter is the slide of Hannibal's fingers, delving between his crack and against stupidly sensitive skin that has Will shaking and clenching his jaw. Even with the varied sensations, it's not much easier to take. Will pushes into certain touches and struggles to not pull away from others. His jaw doesn't remain clenched for long and his breathing grows ragged and punctuated by rather telling gasps and groans. A few expletives slip out when he feels the barest hint of Hannibal's finger push _against_ him. But true to Hannibal's words, it doesn't go any further, and he's left oddly disappointed. Then the sensation shifts and fingers press lower while another digit rubs against his hole and he's squirming at the sensitivity.

Hannibal mentioning using his _mouth_ has Will shivering. He can't even imagine it right now, but he knows he's had enough of whatever this is. He's been made desperate enough to beg, but Will is aware begging won't get him anywhere. They need to relocate and grab lube. Those are the the necessary steps to take. So Will straightens abruptly and feels a little dizzy in the process.

"Okay, uh, let's go. Bed. Yeah," Will sputters.

He's aware of how inelegant he's being, but Will's a man on a mission and he wastes no time pulling the shower curtain back and climbing out of the tub on somewhat shaky legs. He knows he'd ruled out the bed before, but the bed is a lot closer, so that's what he wants. Will doesn't even bother turning the shower off. He grabs a towel, haphazardly drying himself while making a beeline for the drawer where the lube is at.

* * *

Despite the intensity of the last half hour, _this_ is what stands out above the rest. Hannibal watches with rapt attention as Will's patience wears thin. Like a sharp knife barely skating over the fibers of a thick rope, Hannibal's touches and presses wear through Will's control slowly. He can see and calculate the decline, watching as Will's body goes from tense to slightly more relaxed and the sound of his breathing grows louder. He twitches, his hips moving, squirming. Hannibal wonders just where Will's limit is going to be. He's enjoying himself in the meantime, watching the water sluice along the lines of Will's back, over his spine and shoulders and the scar on the back of Will's shoulder that Hannibal still aches to bite properly. It's only when he's been gently massaging Will's perineum for a few moments that Will's control seems to fray past the point of no return. So instead of an immediate shove back, or a snapped response, Will's eventual movement to stand again is wrapped clearly in arousal.

His face is flushed and his eyes are dark as he draws away and Hannibal takes his hands back, silently fascinated by the sight. Will stammers out his response and if Hannibal is surprised by the mention of their bed, he doesn't say so. Instead he watches as Will all but trips out of the shower and the faintest of smiles tugs at Hannibal's lips. He takes the time to turn off the shower, though he's not really washed, and then steps out to grab a towel so he can also dry off. It's a cursory clean but he merely decides he'll shower after this. With that in mind, he follows Will back into their bedroom and watches, amused, as Will moves for the lube in the bedside table. Eager is a good sign.

Hannibal steps up behind him and reaches out, setting a hand on Will's waist to let him know he's there, then he leans in and presses a kiss to Will's nape, breathing in the humid scent of his skin and the soap from the shower. "Get into whatever position you'd feel most comfortable, please," Hannibal says as he reaches in front of Will and takes the lube from him. _Will_ isn't the one who will be needing that this time, at least not unless his mind has changed.

"I want you to talk to me as much as you can during this, Will. Tell me if something is too much. Tell me to slow down, to stop if you need to. All right?"

* * *

A familiar hand comes to Will's hip and a kiss is placed on the back of his neck. Hannibal's reassurance doesn't piss him off. Months ago, anything remotely soft and caring would have irked him. A lot of things had pissed Will off actually. Choosing Hannibal. Wanting, but being denied. Wanting, but not _being okay_ with wanting. Missing simplicity. Missing _them._ There'd been a long list. Despite hiding out, _they_ have not been stagnant. There's been change and growth, something privately tended to and _loved_ like a plant. Shit. Did he just compare _them_ to some houseplant? He drops his towel at the end of the bed. Towels are good for this kind of thing. (The fact that he _knows_ about this kind of thing still blows his mind.)

He willingly lets Hannibal take the lube from him. Only makes sense. He's certainly not fingering himself open (although that gives him an idea _for Hannibal_ ). Will considers the issue of positioning. If he's on his back Hannibal can _see_ him, can see his face and expression. His dick too, but that's not really a problem - he's been hard for what feels like ages now. Will knows he's leaning toward being on his stomach simply for the fact that it's less intimate and he can hide. Seems that old habits die hard, apparently. Knowing that he's considering a position where he can hide makes up his mind. Fuck that. He isn't that man anymore.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles and pulls away from Hannibal to climb on the bed. Will crawls up and begins piling up the pillows in a stack. He's going to prop himself up a little so he can _watch_ Hannibal. He's going to be involved in this; he isn't going to hide his face no matter how much he may want to. Will turns around and begins settling against the pillows. He then remembers a pillow _under_ his hips will make this easier and makes a displeased sound at forgetting. Will's stack of pillows loses one as he moves it lower on the bed to elevate them a little. This is reminiscent of Hannibal's first time and he's certain it won't escape Hannibal's notice. When Will is finally finished and positioned, he feels a little self-conscious and his erection is flagging, but whatever. He _did_ it. He's ready. (He thinks) His hands are by his side and he spreads his legs.

"Let's do this," Will states and when he realizes how macho-stupid that sounds he looks down at the scar on his abdomen and his hands come to rest over it, the familiar raised skin a comfort under his palm.

"Uh... Dès que tu es prêt... S'il te plaît?" Will murmurs. French hopefully will make it better. _(Whenever you're ready... please.)_

* * *

Even now, Hannibal cannot help his awe that Will's frustration and anger have been lessened. Perhaps he still feels annoyance when Hannibal is more tender with him at times, but Will's been lashing out less and less. Following the spar in the living room, Hannibal doesn't truly anticipate any sort of repercussion from the small kiss, but it's still pleasing to know that he's correct. Will might be gruff and blunt at times (dropping the towel and mumbling as he pulls away) but there's less shame in him now. Hannibal expects _some_ given that this is new and a small part of him is curious as to what Will needs at present, but he decides to merely leave the decisions to Will.

Hannibal watches curiously when Will finally climbs up onto the bed. He's expecting Will to immediately get onto his stomach. It's a safer position, easier to hide his face, to keep some of his own control. He's not upset by the thought. Instead he simply watches Will, envisioning what this will be like, wondering at his heat and shivering at the thought of it. So when he sees Will begin piling pillows up, Hannibal simply blinks and a small furrow lands on his brow. He's quiet as he watches Will, and it doesn't take him longer than a few seconds to realize what this is. Will intends to be on his back. Now that _is_ a surprise. And as Will had assumed, Hannibal notices the positioning, notices the similarity to the first time Will had done this to him. Warmth and arousal spike in his chest and Hannibal swallows as Will finally settles. He looks stunning.

Taking his time, Hannibal eases up onto the bed with Will, but instead of immediately uncapping the lube, Hannibal sets it aside and moves in beside Will, not over him. One hand moves to Will's jaw, touching the stubble softened by the shower, and then he leans in and presses a slower kiss to Will's lips, stealing a quick taste. He's kissed Will's cheek and his neck and shoulder today, but this is the first kiss pressed to Will's lips. When he draws back, it's with a hint of a smile in his eyes. He'd noticed Will's uncertainty and he hopes this can begin to circumvent it.

"If you need something from me, I want you to ask me for it. Don't hesitate. I will consider whether or not to allow it, but I _will_ listen to you," he says quietly.

Reaching down for the lube, Hannibal picks it up as he settles beside Will. Leaning over him feels a little too bold for all he wishes to do it. If Will requests it, he'll move, but Will has already taken a massive step forward by laying on his back instead of his stomach. So Hannibal allows him a little comfort at least as he uncaps the lube and squeezes out enough on his fingers to ease the way. At first, Hannibal does nothing different, warming the lube on his fingers before he slides his hand down to press his fingers to Will's hole. He's careful, spreading the slick around slowly to re-familiarize Will with the sensation, but he doesn't wait nearly as long as he had before. Aware of how limited Will's patience often is, Hannibal bends down enough to press a kiss to Will's chest.

"Try to stay relaxed. It will feel odd at first. Just breathe for me," he instructs, and then he begins to press in with his index finger. He's careful, dipping in just enough to feel the hint of heat before drawing back and pressing in again, spreading the lube out evenly against Will's skin as he presses in slowly.

* * *

From the botched submission in the kitchen to the fighting in the living room, that they have ended up here is a surprise, but it's not necessarily a _bad_ one. Hannibal's past surprises have been rather unkind in nature (Abigail, a blade to Will's belly, a saw to his forehead, a killer sent after an innocent family) but it's been Will's surprises since all but running off together that have been more problematic. His moods and impulses had lead him to punching a mirror, taunting Hannibal with his body, and even lying and manipulating Hannibal into killing for him. So, Will doesn't really have the best track record for behaving. But Hannibal surprises him in other ways now, like with how patient he is and how much he puts up with. (There's gotta be a limit to such a reserve, right? Will hasn't found it yet, thankfully.)

Will is waiting with legs spread and watching Hannibal like a hawk. The lube isn't uncapped. The lube is actually put to the side and Hannibal comes to rest _beside_ him. Will turns to voice something (he has no idea what) when Hannibal's hand touches his jaw and an unhurried kiss begins. Will _mmm's_ his contentment with such an action, some of his own anxiety easing. Hannibal's reassurance sounds like he plans on going a bit more dominant in this, but Will doesn't exactly feel bothered by it. After all, he fucked up his turn earlier, so why shouldn't Hannibal have a go at it?

"Yeah, I got it," Will replies. Hannibal will listen to him, but Hannibal will decide if he allows whatever he asks for. Simple enough. He can do this.

When the lube is picked up, Will squirms. Hannibal doesn't actually move lower - not like Will usually is when he had fingered Hannibal open. Hannibal doesn't _need_ to be lower, though. Hannibal can reach his asshole just fine from here. So, okay. Yeah. Will doesn't know what position is best or less embarrassing, so he forces himself to be still and _be okay._ His eyes are wide and glued on each action Hannibal takes. The lube is opened and squeezed. The familiar clear liquid coats Hannibal's fingers and Will swallows. Those fingers are going to be _inside_ of him. Fuck. And then with no further fanfare Hannibal is reaching between his legs and Will's eyes are widening as he feels the first slick contact to his hole. He shudders at the sensitivity and he can feel the antsy excitement shoot through him again at the attention. He's getting hard again and breathing quicker as he drops his head back on the pillow and looks up at the ceiling. Will presses his palm against the scar on his abdomen for a distraction.

Then Hannibal's words come and they're a precursor to what's going to happen. Will closes his eyes and nods. He breathes in deeply and then a finger pushes against him and Will instinctively clenches for a second before forcing himself to relax. There's an awkward _hint_ of a stretch before it feels like Hannibal's finger pulls back a little. The break doesn't last long. Will gasps and flinches at the intrusion, but he breathes through it and Hannibal's finger slides inside. It _does_ feel odd, but it's not painful at least. There's a sensation of strange fullness, but it's manageable.

"Not horrible," Will comments, a bit breathlessly. It's difficult to stay still so he suddenly blurts, "Want you to bite me later. Other thigh."

* * *

It becomes immediately apparent that Will has chosen to work with him in this endeavor. Gone is the man who had once fought back, who had decided recklessness was the answer to kindness. Will is full of an anticipatory tension, but it's different than it's ever been before. He shifts slowly, fighting the urge to squirm, and Hannibal can't blame him. He merely bends and kisses Will's shoulder as another point of distraction as Hannibal watches him. He watches as Will's eyes slide closed, as he concentrates on breathing, and Hannibal finds himself quite taken by the picture Will makes. With his head tilted back like that, his throat is bared, the rise in it sharp and tempting in a way little else is. Hannibal merely observes Will as he spreads the lubrication around and then begins to press in.

Will's body protests the intrusion immediately, but Hannibal merely murmurs a few softer words in the back of his throat, low and encouraging even if the language isn't one Will understands. It doesn't take him long to relax (Hannibal is proud) but even Hannibal makes a soft sound bordering on apologetic when he watches Will flinch. There is a part of him that wishes to ease, to wait for Will to relax. Hannibal Lecter is still a sadist. Seeing that flinch is both worrisome and beautiful. He compromises by pressing a kiss to Will's exposed throat. Admittedly that's all he feels _he_ can handle, for when Will's body opens to the intrusion, Hannibal's own breathing briefly fails him.

The _heat_ around his finger is blazing. It's nothing he's not experienced before, but that this is Will's body opening to him sends a crush of arousal through him. Hannibal makes a small sound in the back of his throat, his breathing sounding a little hitched as Will's body opens to him. It's all slick, _tight_ heat and Hannibal bends down enough to rest his head on Will's shoulder, pressing slower, languid kisses to his throat and clavicle. The reassurance (' _Not horrible'_ ) is enough to draw a soft hum of acknowledgement from him, but Will's addition is enough to make Hannibal pause and then groan softly in the back of his throat.

"That can be arranged," he says breathlessly, a shiver sliding through him at the thought of sinking his teeth in against Will's thigh. He remembers the intimacy of the first time he'd done it and it sends flickers of sensation through him.

"You feel wonderful, Will," Hannibal adds, and he cannot help the mildly distracted tone of his own voice. His finger presses in slowly, moving only as much as he feels Will can reasonably handle at once. He's careful, pressing in and then rocking back just enough until Will's body seems a little more comfortable with the tip of his finger. Only then does Hannibal work deeper, steadily rocking his hand to press his finger in deeper, past the first knuckle and then the second. It's then that he pauses to consider whether or not going straight for sensation is the best idea. He's curious how Will would respond to his prostate but he won't do it unannounced.

"This will likely feel intense and odd. Give it a little bit of time and remain relaxed if you can. It should begin to feel good," Hannibal says as he bends enough to press a kiss to Will's chest. Then he curls his finger and it takes him only a moment to locate the small gland inside of Will that he's likely never explored properly.

* * *

It's abundantly clear that being on the receiving end comes with a staggering amount of vulnerability. Will's done this himself, asked for this, and in asking he's essentially offered this untouched and unexplored part of himself for Hannibal. Will wonders if he should have gone on his stomach instead to at least deny Hannibal the chance to _see_ his responses, but he's not going to back out now or ask to swap positions. Will isn't going to be a bitch about this. If Hannibal can do this, so can he. Save for the last time, Will's tried to be fairly patient and reassuring while fingering Hannibal; now the same level of care is being shown to him. However, Will's aware that Hannibal is going pretty damn slow (too slow, his mind wants to claim) and Will's impatience wants to flare, but he works hard to behave.

As the tip of Hannibal's finger works its way further inside, Will's distantly aware of Hannibal's mouth on his throat. It’s not much of a distraction, but Will can appreciate the sentiment behind the action. After all, he's done the same thing to Hannibal. His request to be bitten again pulls a quieter groan from the older man. Of all the places Hannibal's teeth have been, Will's inner thigh had been by far the most sensitive. He has a scar as a visual and tactile reminder of the memory.

Of course Hannibal has to make some comment about how Will _feels_ (which is easier to take than the compliments directed at how he looks at any rate). "Yeah, yeah," Will mutters and keeps his eyes squeezed shut. It feels weird and wrong in a sense, but still not horrible. It also feels like Hannibal at least has a finger in nearly all the way and he feels accomplished. Until Hannibal speaks. The next set of instructions has Will's nerves skyrocketing because he can't really prepare for Hannibal going for his prostate.

The finger moves inside him and Will frowns, trying to adjust to _that_ sensation when a brush against the infamous prostate has him shaking and tensing. It sends a weird jolt through his pelvis and into his dick.

"What the fu--" Will blurts out, eyes snapping open and head jerking up to look at Hannibal.

Will's fingernails dig into his stomach, but it doesn't help him get grounded. He lets out a hitched exhale and tries to relax as Hannibal's finger continues its pursuit. Will's eyelids flutter as he struggles to process the confusing intense sensation. Will's expression looks half-pained as he lets out a whine and then promptly clenches his jaw to get himself to stop. He can feel himself starting to sweat and the thrumming of arousal feels like it's been laced with nerves.

* * *

There's something very endearing about Will's gruff response. It's clear that he's not necessarily feeling the most comfortable but he'd made his choice freely. He'd had the option of laying down on his stomach but he'd elected not to. All Hannibal can do now is attempt to mitigate how exposed and vulnerable Will actually feels. So he makes certain to warn Will before doing anything, and when he offers his warning about how stimulation of the prostate will likely feel, Hannibal silently drinks in the immediate expression of uncertainty that crosses Will's face before he moves. To his credit, he's as careful as he can be, his movements slow. He doesn't press hard, doesn't immediately begin to rub at the little gland under his finger, but Will's response to the first touch is stunning.

Pleasure carves him open, cracking the reserved shell he'd worked himself into with his closed eyes and tighter posture. That one touch is enough to make him shake and jolt; his eyes snapping open and nails clawing at his own skin is nothing short of beautiful. The words are in Hannibal's throat when he swallows them back down, for he knows enough about this man to know that he can only handle certain levels of intimacy. Much as Hannibal would love nothing better than to expound on this moment, to call attention to every flicker of Will's expression, it's a quick way to have Will shutting down. Instead he kisses the praise into Will's skin without words and drinks in the wide-eyed expression Will sends him.

"Breathe," Hannibal instructs calmly, though not even he is able to ignore the soft whine Will lets out before his jaw clenches. The urge to draw it out again, to hear the way Will's voice breaks over his own pleasure is tempting, but also likely too much too soon. So with Will's comfort in mind, Hannibal takes a moment to adjust. He moves down a little, re-positioning his hand in order to gently circle _around_ Will's prostate without direct, intense stimulation. He's slow, attempting to give Will time to get used to the sensation, but Will Graham is a very sensitive man. Over-stimulation is a real threat, and regardless of how much he likely deserves a taste of his own medicine after a few nights ago, Hannibal is not so petty.

So he leans in again, but instead of pressing his lips to Will's skin, this time he makes it a point to scrape his teeth over Will's throat, the sensation much sharper.

"You're to tell me if it's too much, Will," Hannibal reminds him, his voice lower. "Verbally, or tapping, if you'd rather."

Even as the words escape, Hannibal knows it has the capacity to go wrong. They've never spoken about that evening after Henri. But like this, with Will tense and tight, struggling with his own voice, looking a few seconds away from shaking apart, Hannibal cannot help but be reminded of how high-strung Will had been that night. He eases his finger back and then moves it in deeper, his finger circling Will's prostate. Hannibal's teeth again catch Will's throat, offering up what distraction he can.

* * *

Weird. Too much. Strange. Intimate. Too close. Too deep. Gay. Exposed. Vulnerable. Intimate. Dirty. All these words run through Will's head as he tries to bear the conflicting sensation. None of them are especially helpful, but at least he doesn't vocalize them. He doesn't even want to know what Hannibal would say to a few of them. He tries to breathe, tries to relax. Will tells himself that it can't get any worse than this. At some point he'll adjust. He has to right? That's how this all worked.

Hannibal's finger moves, and whatever he does is much more bearable. Less prostate-craziness and more of something else. Will exhales and licks his lips, his muscles relaxing a little. He's at least over the fact that there's a finger up his ass. He feels Hannibal's head move and the threat of teeth have a sharper gasp leaving Will as he tries dto push his throat into Hannibal's mouth. He sees Hannibal ripping out Dolarhyde's throat, flesh in his mouth as blood spurted--

 _'... Verbally or tapping...'_ Will blinks and is then treated to the memory of himself on his tiptoes, straining in the entryway, a glove stuffed in his mouth and Hannibal holding him off balance. He'd tapped yes and no to Hannibal's questions as Hannibal had kept him on the edge... Will feels arousal spike and his dick gets harder. They've never really talked about it in depth, just the mention that it'd been helpful the morning after. But Will knows it had definitely been _something_. Hannibal's finger shifts, a faint touch that has his hips jerking off the pillow and then crying out as a near bite distracts him.

"Wait a second," Will blurts out after a moment and Hannibal listens, stopping and looking up. Will reaches out for Hannibal's other hand, fingers wrapping around Hannibal's wrist. Will brings it to cover his mouth. His eyes are wide and he's unsure if Hannibal will be okay with this. There is no glove between his teeth, but Will wants the same twisted feeling of being under Hannibal's mercy. Will presses Hannibal's palm tight against his mouth. He grips Hannibal's wrist tight, his index finger stroking once over the back of Hannibal's hand.

He then taps once for 'yes' with his index and middle finger.

* * *

Hannibal is expecting fallout from his suggestion. While Will had clearly found comfort in the concept of tapping before, they have not discussed its impact since and mentioning it again poses a risk. So Hannibal moves more, and when his finger brushes the edges of Will's prostate enough for him to lift his hips and cry out, he turns his attention again on Will's body. He makes a mental note that Will responds far better to faint stimulation rather than direct. Before he can refocus his entire attention on Will's pleasure and the tight heat of his body, Will gasps out an order for Hannibal to _wait_ and Hannibal stills immediately.

He draws back and sends Will a glance, frowning warily in concern. He's already set to draw back fully upon Will's command - It'd be so simple for Will to fall apart right now - but instead of ordering him to stop, Hannibal glances at the wrist Will winds up grabbing. It takes him a second to shift so his balance isn't compromised, but when he realizes what Will is doing, when he realizes that Will wants to feel _controlled_ again, Hannibal's wariness eases into a sharper understanding. He watches Will seem to settle with the hand covering his mouth and when the gentle tap comes, heat slides carefully through him. One tap - _yes_.

Hannibal takes over then. He shifts to better brace his own weight and presses down harder against Will's mouth until he can feel stubble digging into his palm and each of Will's breaths tickling over the back of his hand. He hooks his thumb under Will's chin to better hold him in place and when he eases the finger inside of Will out and then back in again, there's no hesitation in his movements. He still doesn't rub Will's prostate directly, instead slowly circling around it.

"Does this help?" Hannibal asks quietly. He remembers how forthcoming Will had been with information before and so he doesn't hesitate in asking such a blatant question. "Simply needing to feel, and not needing to worry about falling apart?"

* * *

That Will at times struggles communicating with Hannibal is something that neither one of them would dispute. Will's never exactly been well-spoken, prone to being impulsive and speaking without the use of a filter. Thoughts and images race through his mind, unwanted associations coming together, and it's far too easy to become agitated and bothered. Hannibal knows this all too well and has weathered these bouts of instability; he's held Will together and done whatever was needed to quiet him. Whether it was dragging him out of the ocean, Hannibal's hands on his neck, or having a mock fight in the living room, Hannibal had remained and seen him through volatile times.

He can't remember why he had been bothered so much about the idea of submitting to Hannibal back then, but he had. He'd felt conflicted about the airy feeling, his obvious state of arousal at Hannibal taking control and narrowing his focus. Will doesn't know what's all changed. Yeah, he's done more to Hannibal - been allowed to fuck him, put a makeshift collar on him. He's been in the opposite position of giving orders and seeing them obeye. If a man like Hannibal would get to his knees in the kitchen, Will can trust...

Hannibal's hand pushes against his mouth harder, a thumb moving under his chin. Will breathes a little harsher. Will's eyelids flutter as Hannibal's finger slides out and then back in. He can't help but wonder how Hannibal's cock would feel doing the same thing and an anticipatory arousal sparks in him. He doesn't wonder long because that finger begins rubbing again. It's not as intense as previously, but it still has him straining into the touch and giving a muffled moan. Even so, he doesn't miss Hannibal's words. Had he been close to falling apart? Will's not sure. He'd been chasing the rush after the kitchen fiasco (and fiasco is the perfect word for it). First the rush of violence, of a struggle, of _Hannibal --_ Hannibal overpowering him, Hannibal being strong and threatening. And then _more_. _Closer_. Because Will doesn't want to think on how poorly he'd behaved, how he's been keeping things in, but believing he was doing better. He still doesn't want to think on it.

So, he taps once. It helps. _Hannibal_ helps and Will grips Hannibal's wrist tighter. Hannibal has him and Will wants to believe he always will.

* * *

Will's fingers fall upon the back of his hand in a single tap and Hannibal nods once, looking gently pleased. The pride in his eyes is muted. Were Will to wish to see it, he'd need to look for it; too much pride, too many soft words, too much sentiment and Will Graham begins to shake apart. Like this, his pride more distant, his words calm and expression mild, Will can look at him and see what he needs to. He can see strength and capability and know that regardless of how vulnerable he might be feeling at present, Hannibal has him. The grip around his wrist tightens and Hannibal presses a little harder in response, until Will's lips have to be a little sore at the pressure. Hannibal believes the pain will be more grounding.

Beside him, Will's body twists and arches up, chasing the phantom feeling of pleasure he's not yet used to. Hannibal watches him with rapt attention and shivers silently as Will's muscles twitch and clench around his finger in response to his movements. He wets his lips only once and nods.

"In that case, if you need this from me in the future, I want you to do exactly as you did. Tell me or pull my hand over. I expect the same response if ever you need to spar as we did downstairs. I need to know what you need, Will. Understood?"

He hardly gives Will a half second to answer before Hannibal carefully curls his finger again. He presses directly just once, then returns to slow, casual circles, working into a careful rhythm. Every few circles of his finger, he draws it out and then presses back in - gently at first and then a little more forceful. Yet regardless of how Hannibal presses into Will's body, he always gives those same slow circles and the occasional brush directly to Will's prostate, all the while making softer, soothing sounds whenever he believes the sensation might be getting too sharp. It's a silent wonder to be able to give Will this sort of pleasure, to see him respond so beautifully.

* * *

At his tapped answer, Hannibal looks content, but not overly so. Will has a feeling - a sneaking suspicion really - that Hannibal is seeking to moderate himself here, to be tempered and careful. (Once upon a time that would have pissed Will off to no end, but not so much now.) Will knows Hannibal is well aware that he can be rather testy at times, sensitive to what _he_ perceives as praise or too much sentiment. Will also knows he's reactive by nature and it's only been compounded by his relationship with Hannibal. Despite Hannibal's best intentions and care, Will isn't an easily contented man. The idea and notion of complacency is a very real threat to Will. Hannibal has awoken a slumbering wolf and Will has become seized by the hunger for _more_ and _closer_ , and the desire to succumb to a once feared violence.

(Sometimes he dreams of the bluff, of the moon caressed in clouds being the only witness to the deadly dance of three men - three different monsters - each who had their own reasons to fight and want to live. He can smell and feel himself bathed in blood -- his own and Dolarhyde's. He dreams of panting, high on the thrill and danger of a shared foe. He remembers the relief of Hannibal coming to his aid and it's much stronger and intense than when Hannibal had stalked up on an unsuspecting Henri...)

Hannibal's hand presses more firmly against his mouth and it's pushing further into uncomfortable and a little sore, but it's good. It helps him manage the strange and intense sensations Hannibal's finger is eliciting. He tries to focus on Hannibal's words, on Hannibal expecting him to be honest and essentially assertive in having his needs met. Should such a thing seem so daunting? Hannibal's words repeat themselves in his mind: _'I need to know what you need, Will.'_ Before Will can think on them, Hannibal's finger is moving differently and Will is left shuddering and groaning.

And then the motions return to something more manageable and Will gradually becomes more accustomed to what's going on. Hannibal begins to pump out his finger every so often and miraculously it's no longer an uncomfortable stretch. Some sort of pattern emerges -- the teasing, the occasional more direct stimulation that has Will shaking and giving muffled curses, and then Hannibal's finger retreating a moment before thrusting back in. Will's cock is fully hard now and a few times his eyes slip shut, but he tries his best to watch Hannibal watching him. A part of him still feels embarrassed because this is staggeringly new and he's both exposed and vulnerable like this, but Hannibal is soothing. Will relaxes his hold on Hannibal's wrist to allow his fingers to stroke along the back of Hannibal's hand. Will impatiently squirms, arching his hips up and wanting more. He's never tolerated complacency.

* * *

Hannibal is silent as he gently works his finger but that doesn't mean he's not engaged. While he does try to temper his response so as not to overwhelm Will with it, he cannot deny being affected. Will's body is a hot, tight clench around his finger and the way he twitches and groans when Hannibal presses in just right is enough to send heat pooling low. It's gradual, Hannibal taking his time with Will's body. Eventually Will is hard again and Hannibal sends him a long, appreciative look. He bites back a few of the comments he knows Will wouldn't respond well to, but he still allows himself to _think_ about how stunning Will looks like this. Will is not the only one hard, but Hannibal pays himself no mind, instead humming his satisfaction when Will responds favorably and bending only once to press a kiss to the back of Will's fingers as they stroke his hand.

Eventually Will's squirming becomes a little more pronounced, his hips arching, and Hannibal briefly considers making Will ask for more. He dismisses the idea. Instead he merely curls his finger again and then slowly eases it out.

"I think you can take another now," Hannibal says. It's slightly awkward to apply more lubricant with only one hand, but he manages to do just that, coating two of his fingers and spreading the slickness around with his thumb. "Just like before, Will. I'll go slow. It will feel like more of a stretch but it should feel enjoyable again quickly. If you wish to stop at any point, three taps."

It's the only warning Hannibal gives before he once more moves in. He traces both fingers along warm skin, shivering a little at the knowledge of what Will is currently allowing him. Hannibal does little but circle his fingers, stroking over Will's hole and dipping in occasionally in order to relax him again. When he does finally begin to press inward again, the tight clench of Will's body is much more distracting. Hannibal breathes deeply and wets his own lips as he watches Will.

"You're doing well," he says softly, proudly. "Continue watching me. If you must, you may close your eyes, but I want you present, Will. Focus on me, on my voice, or my fingers. Just stay with this moment."

* * *

It's a show of trust that Will's asked for this, that he's spread his legs for Hannibal and offered to be felt in an entirely new way. Likewise, Hannibal is trusting him to be honest. How many secrets remain hidden from each other? Will still thinks about the nightmare and wonders what kind of skeletons could bother a man like Hannibal. Will's pretty sure it's entirely fucked up and inappropriate to be jealous of a _nightmare_ , to selfishly want to be the only thing that terrorizes Hannibal. He's like a child that needs to be re-familiarized with the lesson about sharing, but Hannibal is no mere toy and Will doesn't think the desire to consume _and_ be consumed will ever abate. So, Will will be jealous of the unknown threat that he's witnessed in the middle of the night because it's something that has touched Hannibal in a way that Will had no part of.

(This possessive tendency within him is a frightful ravenous beast.)

But for now Will is propped up on pillows, eyes open, body open, and Hannibal's finger twists and presses in ways that have Will writhing. He's effectively on display for Hannibal, and the thought has a different kind of pleasure settling low. Yeah, he would have hated such a thing before, but now Will wants those eyes _only_ on him. Hannibal's eyes are warm and open to him and Will lets himself be observed, drinking up the attention. Thankfully Hannibal understands that he wants _more_ , and Will makes a sound of affirmation after Hannibal tells him he's going to be 'taking another'. With Hannibal's finger out, the emptiness is more disconcerting than Will would have thought. He doesn't know how to feel about the observation but he has a few moments of respite as Hannibal gets more lube.

He flexes his feet as Hannibal smears more slick against him and assures that he'll go slow -- and also mentions the good 'ole three taps which would bring about a stop. Will breathes out sharply through his nostrils as his hole is teased again. It's difficult to lay still and take it, but he tries. Hannibal seems to sense his impatience and before Will can work himself up, Hannibal's fingers _finally_ push in. There's the uncomfortable stretch that flares again and Will cringes as he forces himself to relax around the addition. Hearing ' _you may close your eyes_ ' has Will glaring and shaking his head a little. Like Hell he's going to wimp out and hide from Hannibal; he's committed to this, he's not going to back down. To prove as such, Will digs his nails into the back of Hannibal's hand as he bears down on Hannibal's fingers. He's not going anywhere.

* * *

Hannibal is relieved that Will doesn't seem adverse to his favor this time, for he doubts it would be possible to fully reign himself back in. He might be in control in the barest sense of the word, but Will Graham is the man in charge here, and it's Will who Hannibal has eyes for. Hannibal bites words back as he watches Will's body arch and twist with impatience, and those words shift pointedly when his fingers finally press into Will's body. Heat and tightness welcome him, Will's body struggling around the extra stretch. Just as Hannibal suggests that Will could close his eyes were he to wish to do so, the most vibrant glare shoots over Will's expression. Instead of closing his eyes, Will glares and shakes his head and Hannibal has to swallow down the urge to verbally muse over how stunning Will looks like this.

Nails dig against his hand and Hannibal nods once in understanding as he presses his hand a little tighter to Will's mouth. It can't be entirely comfortable, but then, neither can the way Will is bearing down on his fingers. He's pushing himself to prove a point, and while Hannibal does wish to draw back and take it slow, Will Graham is a prideful, stubborn man. He decides to avoid insulting him and merely lets out a slow breath of arousal as his fingers press a little deeper into a body suddenly more open to him. Hannibal hums softer sounds of satisfaction - hoping to mask praise behind them - and he gives Will a few slow thrusts with his fingers, spreading the lube evenly.

As soon as he's able, as soon as his fingers are deep enough, Hannibal curls them. The heat and tightness are mesmerizing and the urge to lean down and take Will's cock into his mouth is difficult to avoid. He resists only because the flood of sensation might be too much, but there is both admiration and hunger in his eyes as he watches Will. His attention can't possibly drift when Will is offering him _this_.

"Is this all right?" Hannibal asks, his voice a little lower in his own arousal. Wetness glistens at the head of his own cock, but Hannibal can't bring himself to care. Not when his entire focus is on Will, and on carefully rubbing around his prostate with two fingers. A more even sensation, a deeper pleasure. He wonders idly if Will could come like this. It's something he'd like to see.

* * *

His stubborn refusal to close his eyes is met with a nod of understanding from Hannibal. The hand covering Will's mouth presses harder yet, but the discomfort is a familiar one and adds another sensation to focus on. The stretching of two fingers inside of him is more uncomfortable than the hand over his mouth, but Will doesn't relent. He moves as best as he can, forcing himself to be okay and to relax and _take it_ because this is Hannibal offering what he's requested. Will has Hannibal's full attention, Hannibal's care in this, and it's an overwhelming position to be in (but one he's asked for). So, of course Will finds a rough edge to hold onto by putting Hannibal's hand over his mouth and pushing himself to take more.

The softness and love can be as sharp or sharper than a scalpel and Will's not entirely certain how to handle it at times. Oh, he craves it still, he wants the murmured love confessions in the languages he cannot understand. He wants to see Hannibal's eyes warm and filled with praise. Will wants to brush up against the feeling that he's worthy, that he's _enough_ just as he is. He wants to believe that dark creatures like them get a happy ending even though they may not deserve it.

Will groans as Hannibal's fingers languidly push into him and he can't help but think that the human body is pretty fucking amazing that it accommodates and stretches like this. Of course he's been on the other end, he's witnessed Hannibal's body open first to his fingers and then to his dick, but this is another experience entirely. Will jerks when his prostate is grazed again and his eyes are wide and he's determined to be receptive to whatever Hannibal gives him. His fingers uncurl on Hannibal's hand and he taps once for _yes_ , that this is alright. Hannibal's lower tone sounds damn sexy and Will tries to get a look at Hannibal's cock and he's not surprised to find it fully hard. His own dick is own display, jutting out, untouched, and Will's other hand twitches by his side. A part of him wants to touch it, but instead he grips at the sheets and tries to behave. He remembers that Hannibal seemed to want to take a more dominant role in this and maybe Will wants to behave for him and let him do just that. As Hannibal continues, Will's pulse picks up and he's breathing loudly through his nose. He shakes and squirms from certain movements inside, arousal gradually increasing and Will lets out a whine. He's unsure if he can come from this, or if that's what Hannibal even wants and Will makes a distressed sound trying to communicate this concern.

* * *

One tap - _yes,_ this is all right - is all it takes to quiet Hannibal's concern. He finds himself wholly relieved because while he would stop were Will to ask him to do so, he doesn't wish to. Will's body is spread out beautifully beside him, tight and hot on the inside and trembling with a building desperation on the outside. While Hannibal does look at Will with a slightly softer approval, there is also a sharper edge to the glance that is pure arousal, awe, and something markedly darker. Hannibal Lecter is still a sadist, after all. Perhaps it had never been sexual before Will, and perhaps his desire to truly _hurt_ Will is not present, but seeing the furrow to his brow, seeing the edge of pleasure that is almost painful, seeing the way he squirms---desperate, aroused but untouched--- is thrilling.

He catches the glance Will sends his own cock but doesn't draw attention to it. Will seems pleased enough to know Hannibal is equally as invested, and he seems almost more enthusiastic as Hannibal strokes him from within, directing a carefully building pleasure. Hannibal feels each of Will's breaths against his hand, feels the trembling in Will's body, and it isn't long before each of Will's breaths is rougher and louder. Will is tense, drawn tight, and Hannibal shivers at the thought of Will coming like this, desperate, squirming, his muscles twitching and clenching around Hannibal's fingers. He's careful, not shoving, not pushing, but he does delight in how hard Will is and how slick with precome his cock has grown. It makes sense with prostate stimulation, but it's still appealing to watch.

The whine Will eventually lets out does catch Hannibal's attention though. He blinks, darting a quick look to Will and notes the furrow to his brow, the line of desperation and uncertainty, and Hannibal's fingers slow down a little. He doesn't stop, but he turns each brush of his fingers into a slower circle of Will's prostate. Without Will speaking, it's difficult to ascertain the issue, but Hannibal quickly takes stock of the positioning. Will's hand is clenched in the sheets beside him, his cock red and angry with arousal. He's breathing heavily - overstimulated perhaps? But no, Will could stop him were that the case. He's merely uncertain. Still, Hannibal sends him a mild look of mingled curiosity and concern. "Is this too much?" Hannibal asks, and even he's surprised by how affected his tone is. Will is stunning like this.

"You're all right, Will. It will feel intense, will feel sharper. If you need more, you need only let me know," Hannibal adds, careful to give Will time to respond. He doesn't want to frustrate Will like he had last time. "You have a choice. If you wish to touch yourself, you may do so. If you wish me to continue exactly as I have been, do nothing. If you want my mouth," Hannibal adds, with a glance down at Will's cock, "squeeze my wrist. You're doing well. I'm proud of you."

* * *

Earlier Will had taken more than a misstep in the kitchen. He'd practically kicked Hannibal when he was _actually down_ because Hannibal had trusted him and begrudgingly got to his knees. In the kitchen of all places, Hannibal's sanctuary. Despite his fuck up, Hannibal had heard him out afterward. Hannibal had given him what he asked for, fighting with him in the living room and Will had been thrilled in the struggle, in the rush of violence, in experiencing Hannibal strong and dangerous. Maybe in a way this is an act of atonement because Will doesn't exactly think an 'I'm sorry' can cut it. So, he's giving himself to Hannibal in this and Will can see the hunger in Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal is fucking _pleased_ watching him squirm. And why shouldn't Hannibal be delighted? Will knows he'd feel the same thing if their positions were reversed. Will _has._ They're the same animal, different breed, but enough alike.

Will is dripping. He can feel pre-come coat the tip of his dick. He's honestly impressed how aroused he is from _this_ specific activity. Of course he's fingered Hannibal before, but it's usually been with the intention to fuck him after. Will's never played with Hannibal's ass just because he _could_. Well, not until a few nights ago and he'd almost gone too far in his eagerness. (He still is unsure how to feel about that.) Next time, however, he plans to do a little more thorough job and explore this with Hannibal. His whine has Hannibal easing somewhat, but his finger doesn't relent. Will feels antsy, each small motion tantalizing and enticing, but almost too--

 _'Is this too much?'_ Despite the truth that it may actually be too much, Will doesn't need to think before he taps twice for _no_. Will can take it and he inhales slowly to try and compose himself. And then Hannibal goes on and gives him options. He can touch himself, he can do nothing and let Hannibal carry on at his his own pace (of course) or Will can have Hannibal's mouth on him. Will can't help but remember a similar dilemma posed to him when the tapping had first been been introduced (straining, on his tiptoes, restrained by Hannibal and so fucking hard). At the time, Will had opted to _not_ be touched. What would continue to make Hannibal proud _now_? Because hearing that, hearing that he's doing well, feels really good. He would rather have that than Hannibal's mouth and the realization sits uncomfortable with him.

(Will wants to say, 'I'll do whatever would please you.' He wants to say, 'I'm sorry I'm so difficult; you don't deserve it.' He wants. He wants. He _wants_.)

But Will says nothing because Hannibal's hand is covering his mouth (but the real reason is that he knows he's much better at wounding with his words than mending). Will does nothing because he's unwilling to risk ruining whatever is transpiring between them right now. He tries to relax, to stay present. Even though the stretch of two fingers has dulled, Will still feels on the edge. Edge of what? He doesn't know, but he tries to believe he's safe. Unfortunately that's when he's notices that at the corners of the room, where they meet the ceiling, an inky blackness has started to bleed down the walls. He's immediately connecting it with the wendigo and Will's jaw clenches. As far as blood or hallucinations go, this is hardly anything. Will's eyes refocus on Hannibal and he ignores what's not real.

* * *

In truth, Hannibal is expecting Will to take one of the two choices posed to him. Will is not a weak man; he's stubborn to a fault. Unfortunately that often means he pushes himself beyond his limits, focusing on what he _feels_ he should be all right with as opposed to what he can actually handle. Hannibal had missed a cue the last time they had done something like this, and Will had slid too far and had fallen apart, lashing out, snapping out of his comfortable lightness and into a drop Hannibal hadn't seen coming. Much as he aches to touch himself, or to give himself some attention, he will not repeat that mistake. This time his focus is entirely on Will, on every twitch of his muscles, every hitch in his breathing, every clench around his fingers.

With Will silent, it's difficult. But if this is what Will needs, Hannibal will give it to him. So when Will opts to stay quiet - telling Hannibal to continue exactly as he has been - even Hannibal is a little surprised. He looks down at Will, at the beautiful flush to his face and the curl of damp hair over his forehead and he sends him an appraising look, head tilted to the side. Will wants _this_ then. Pride flickers behind Hannibal's eyes for a moment and it's only by the grace of a god that Hannibal doesn't believe in that he happens to be looking at Will's face when Will's mind begins to slide down a different slope.

Hannibal is already tensing his fingers again, already about to continue just as he had been. Then he sees the sudden clench of Will's jaw and the way his gaze flickers just for a second. Were this anyone else, Hannibal would have ignored it as a mild distraction, but he knows better than to assume with Will. Hannibal quickly glances in the direction of one of the corners of the room, but he sees nothing. When he looks back at Will, the man is staring resolutely at him and Hannibal considers him for a moment. Then he shifts, leaning in a little closer. As his fingers curl and press against Will's prostate in a slow circle, Hannibal presses his lips to the fringe of damp hair on Will's forehead, tenderness to offset the way his grip on Will's mouth tightens.

"Whatever it is," Hannibal begins lowly, "I want your focus on me. Three taps to stop if you need to tell me something, but otherwise I want your focus here, Will. Just watch, and breathe for me."

Watching Will closely for signs that this is too much, Hannibal sets his fingers around Will's prostate and begins to rub, still slow, but far more steady. Will _can_ come like this if he lets himself and if left to his own devices. Hannibal intends for Will to experience it. Perhaps in the future he will work Will up and let him come back down before starting again, but he doesn't think Will's in the proper place to handle edging and teasing. Not at this moment in time.

* * *

Now is a terrible, shitty time to have a hallucination, but this isn't a movie, and sex doesn't go perfectly. There's no wind artistically fluttering the curtains, there's no romantic music swelling in the background or atmospheric lighting to set the mood. While Hannibal may murmur praise, Will doesn't feel like any of the responses are scripted. It's just them in this moment. They might be flawed but they're also resilient. Yes, there's a fear that Hannibal's patience may someday run out, that Will's going to fuck up and it'll be just the right mistake that has Hannibal casting him aside. But Will doesn't _truly_ believe it because Will has copious amounts of evidence that proves Hannibal's devotion.

Hannibal loves him.

Hannibal loves him. So could the walls stop bleeding, please? Will wants to keep Hannibal proud. He wants to come (because by now he knows that's what Hannibal is aiming for -- for him to come without his dick being touched). In order for that to happen, Will can't be freaking out because, while the hallucination isn't grandiose _yet_ , he's worried that it's going to spiral and the wendigo is going to make an appearance. Hannibal must notice his sudden apprehension because he's leaning in to kiss at his forehead. Will tries to push into the light touch, but it's difficult to move as Hannibal's grip over his mouth increases. Will's not panicked because he knows Hannibal and Hannibal knows him; Hannibal knows he's seeing something and Hannibal will try and hold him together. (Hands that have taken so much, but now _give_ and _give_.)

Focus on Hannibal. Three taps now signals a stop if he wants to speak. Watch. Breathe. Simple instructions and Will honest to god _tries_ to let himself be won over by the maddening touch. Out of the peripheral he can see the black inky mess streak further down the walls. It now reminds him of blood. Dolarhyde had bled. Henri hadn't, but Will sometimes sees him bleeding from a gash to his neck like Abigail. Will grunts in frustration and his fingers tap three times. Hannibal immediately removes his hand, but Will's own wraps around Hannibal's wrist. Will guides Hannibal's hand to cover over his eyes instead.

He's never liked the idea of being blindfolded, of not being able to _see_ (especially when he knew something _could_ be out there). But this is the lesser of two evils and Will isn't going to crumble.

"I think... I think this will help," Will mumbles.

* * *

There is no way for Hannibal to know what Will is seeing. All he can do is observe Will's reactions with as careful an eye as he can. He sees the distraction in his eyes despite their best efforts (Will is trying; Hannibal can tell) but whatever Will is seeing is clearly winning out. In the end, Hannibal is just about to draw his fingers out, just about to suggest something else when the three taps come to the back of his hand. Immediately Hannibal pulls away, but Will doesn't look _distressed_ , merely frustrated. It doesn't take more than a few seconds for Hannibal to ascertain that Will doesn't appear frustrated with him. The situation, perhaps. The way Will catches his wrist says a lot.

Hannibal watches him cautiously, his fingers stilled. To his surprise, Will just guides his hand up over his eyes instead. Immediately Hannibal is wary; the images behind the mind's eye can be very powerful, but if this could feasibly help Will, he wishes to try.

"All right," Hannibal says simply, allowing Will the dignity of getting himself settled. Hannibal takes a moment to adjust his own position. The elbow he'd had bracing himself is now awkward so he moves it up on the bed. He's still able to brace himself properly but it takes a little more effort. His hand is not tight over Will's eyes, but it _is_ firm, the press evident but not so rough as to send sparks behind Will's eyes.

Hannibal looks him over slowly, from the slight redness around his lips from the previous tighter hold all the way down Will's flushed, slightly-damp chest, then down to the heavy flush of his cock. He doesn't do anything at first, merely letting Will get adjusted to the new darkness. Then Hannibal leans in.

"I'm going to kiss you," he tells Will, to keep him from panicking at the movement, and he brushes their lips together once, soft, and then again, a little deeper, tasting Will with a quick flick of his tongue and suck to his lower lip. "Is it something you wish to talk about?" Hannibal asks as his thumb brushes down Will's cheek. It's a little awkward but nothing he can't work with. Hannibal takes great care in the way he gently eases his fingers from Will's body, rubbing them slowly around his rim for a few seconds to bring him back down from the heightened sensation. Only when he feels Will can take it again does he carefully push back in, moving to curl his fingers slowly. He won't rush in this until he knows Will wishes him to.

* * *

Like hell if Will's going to let his crazy affect this moment between them. He's not going to back down and run away (run _where_ , anyway?). He'll try idea after idea if he has to, because he's determined to stay put, to take it and to eventually succeed. He wants to give Hannibal this. He wants Hannibal's eyes concentrated on him, his fingers moving inside in that tantalizing way. Will wants _all_ of Hannibal's attention. His pride. His favor. If he has to be tied down, senses taken away, so be it. (The idea kinda appeals.)

Not that Will needs his eyes to _see_ and _imagine_ , but right now he thinks cutting off direct visual input will help combat this particular hallucination. This is his hope at any least. Hannibal's hand is warm against his eyelids and forehead. It's Will's own blindfold crafted from flesh. His eyes are closed and there is a measure of relief from not being able to see the bleeding. Will wonders if the walls keep on bleeding if it will start to fill the room like it had--

' _I'm going to kiss you'_ \-- and yeah, that's better to think about and have happen. Will is receptive to the kiss, his lips parting and he sighs when their mouths connect gently. A moment later, it's briefly deepened and the feel of a tongue has Will giving a soft, contented moan. But the kiss doesn't last, Hannibal pulling away and then asking the dreaded question... but by now Will knows what happens when he _doesn't_ talk. Maybe the talking will help distract him?

"Yeah, okay," Will says and can't help but shift when Hannibal's fingers pull out. As if gearing himself up, Will exhales slowly, but then Hannibal's fingers circle around his hole and he's left gasping and trying to gather his wits about him. "Fuck, uhh." It doesn't get much easier to speak when the digits work their way back inside and brush against the apparently not so elusive prostate.

"It's black... An inky mess bleeding from the ceiling down the walls," Will grits out. He tries to thrust down on Hannibal's fingers. He doesn't know if he wants the teasing now. "Like half of the wendigo's face bleeding off." Unease spikes at the memory and both of Will's hands clutch at the sheets now.

"Can-can you just fuck me?" He blurts out and squirms, both from anticipation and nerves. "With your fingers, please? Need it... Rougher."

* * *

Hannibal's pleased when Will is receptive to the kiss, but there's far more to this than merely kissing. Will is careful as he kisses back, losing himself in the sensation, and Hannibal does consider merely indulging himself for far longer, but the reason behind the need to cover Will's eyes lingers like a shadow above them. Hannibal cannot keep from addressing such a clear concern. So, while Will clearly doesn't _wish_ to answer, he still makes an effort to. When Hannibal carefully presses his fingers back into the gripping, tight heat, it is partly a reward for being forthcoming. Hannibal hums to let Will know that he's listening and then goes quiet as Will gasps and struggles to focus on what he's saying.

He truly is beautiful like this---long limbs stretched out, muscles quivering, his hole tight and clenched and hot as Hannibal carefully moves his fingers inside. Yet beyond the mere physical is Will's admission. Hannibal glances at him and then looks towards the bare walls. There's no inky blackness there, but he can imagine why such a sight had been upsetting. That the wendigo has apparently been seen again is telling. Or... no, not the wendigo, but a similar blackness. Hannibal thinks back to the car ride where Will had mentioned the wendigo being wrong, owning his face. He wonders briefly if this bleeding black is what remains of what the wendigo had once been.

Hannibal can feel Will's pulse pick up through where his fingers are buried and he strokes his thumb again over Will's cheek, as soothing as he can manage. Yet instead of soothing, Will appears to need something different. The request - that Hannibal move rougher - catches him by surprise. His breath hitches slightly and his gaze darkens imperceptibly. Watching Will squirm and ask so sweetly makes it impossible to refuse.

"Of course, Will. You need only ask," Hannibal says quietly. "Just one moment." He draws his fingers out only to slick them with more lubricant; he will not injure Will here regardless of what Will seems to wish. When he presses back in, Hannibal ensures that Will seems relaxed enough for more. Then he leans in and gently nips at his lower lip as he works his fingers in a little harder, more insistently.

He doesn't rub; he thrusts, aiming the pads of his fingers to brush a little rougher against Will's prostate with every pointed movement. Hannibal presses his teeth to Will's lower lip, a hint of a threat, then draws back to trail softer, biting kisses down his chest, where it's easiest to reach. "I want you to know that regardless of what you may see, you are safe here. Your wendigo is shedding its skin, so to speak."

* * *

He'd clarified that he wanted to be fucked by Hannibal's _fingers_ and not Hannibal _himself_. Will thinks Hannibal likely wouldn't have done the latter anyway. And while it kind of irritates Will to think of Hannibal still policing him, Will _understands_. He's impulsive. The morning had been a shit show (for lack of a better word) so nothing too crazy should be allowed to happen in the bedroom. He gets it. Hannibal is more level headed than he is. Hannibal feels responsible for him, for them both, and yeah, while it does bug him a little, Will also appreciates knowing that, even now, Hannibal has him.

Will doesn't really worry that Hannibal will deny him the request, especially as he's used 'please.' Even with the affirmation and the warning to wait, the sudden loss of fingers retreating has Will uncomfortable and left vulnerable. He feels a drop of sweat travel down his arm and Will can't help but think of the walls again, the hallucinations of Henri with his neck gouged open. When the wendigo is done bleeding, when he sees it next (because Will knows he's _going_ to) will it be his entire face, or simply half?

Fingers push back in (with more lube, makes sense) and Will arcs off the bed, all too grateful for the distraction. He's gasping, mouth slack and Hannibal's teeth are on his bottom lip which just adds another sensation to it all. Will's body first tenses as Hannibal's fingers now thrust in, but he soon gives into it and rocks back as best he can. Hannibal's mouth moves lower, kisses left in its wake, and Will is squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"What if... What if it's me after it's done?" Will mumbles, his voice strained from pleasure and distress. "I said... I said I didn't delight--" A moan cuts himself off. He feels an odd sense of intensity from this, from Hannibal's fingers fucking into him, but it's tainted with an obvious apprehension. Will's hands let go of the sheet and desperately seek out an anchor. His hands reach out and come to bury in Hannibal's damp hair.

* * *

Will is as conflicted as he is stunning and Hannibal can read it in every twitch of his body. His muscles are tense. As Hannibal watches him, as his fingers press in deeper, he can see the fine sheen of sweat beginning to cover Will's skin. He's beautiful---restrained and desperate, his body trembling in arousal but his mind still curling around distress. Will's muscles are far too tight against his side; Hannibal can tell he's still not _all_ with him, but he hardly has to be. Hannibal has no desire to wrench Will back to reality, merely to guide him back to something familiar. So as Will rocks back and gasps, as his muscles twitch around Hannibal's fingers, Hannibal merely kisses his chest, biting marks into his skin that will soon fade.

He can feel the twitches of Will's eyelashes against his palm and reads his distress clearly. Yet in its face, Hannibal merely remains strong. He thrusts his fingers into Will steadily, glancing them deeply against his prostate on every third or fourth thrust just to get him used to the crush of pleasure without overwhelming him entirely. Will's doing a fine job of overwhelming himself as it is, and as Will writhes and finally voices his true concerns, Hannibal merely strokes his cheek and bites against Will's clavicle, knowing his teeth will leave indents for a few hours. He doesn't complain when Will reaches for his hair, instead humming a rough note of satisfaction as a shivering pleasure slides through him. Will is seeking to ground himself, and Hannibal feels captured by this man's body, his actions, and his mind.

Hannibal takes a moment to simply work his fingers in deeper, a little harder, as he thinks of how best to phrase his response. Will is distressed, but Hannibal is merely captivated. He watches Will's distress with open awe as he takes him apart with his fingers.

"If it's you then at least you will know," Hannibal says gently. "Your wendigo is bleeding its shell away, Will. The armor is falling off, leaving fragmented images of its true self beneath. After so many years of showing its mask to you, I would assume it believes you are ready to share its secret." Hannibal twists his fingers then, driving them up against that sensitive gland within Will's body with sharper, shorter thrusts. His teeth graze Will's skin, and for that second, it's almost violent.

"Consider this a metamorphosis. If it is you, then you can take comfort in it. If it isn't, then it is still imparting a secret to you. Has it ever injured you before, Will? Or has it merely observed? Is it truly a threat?"

* * *

Teeth meet the skin on his chest and Will remembers the blood on Hannibal's teeth, around his mouth and the corresponding wound left on the Dragon's throat. They've both bitten and torn flesh, but never _together_. Mouths and teeth, biting and blood... The familiar desire surges, a violence that Will used to both be afraid and judgmental of. It has a scorching heat twisting through him and Will feels like he may be consumed as Hannibal fucks him with two fingers (or is it one? Two? Will doesn't know). Every once in awhile his prostate is brushed against and Will is gasping, completely at Hannibal's mercy. But Hannibal doesn't bite hard enough to have him bleeding or marked, his mouth alternates between kissing and nipping. Will tries to give in and not worry about the wendigo and symbolism and other bullshit. He wants Hannibal to fuck this crazy out of him, to overwhelm it by unyielding and repetitive motions. In, out, in, out. He'll burn up, forget about--

 _'If it's you then at least you will know...'_ Will doesn't want to hear it, but the truth slices through him cleanly like a blade. Is trying to hide and ignore the wendigo going to really change anything? He'd tried to bury Hannibal before, to let the monster rot while he ran away into a new, welcoming life. Will had ended up burying himself in the process because he hadn't exactly been himself with Molly and Walter. Maybe in another life he could have found them again and been the husband and father that they both deserved, but this life belonged to Hannibal.

He belongs to Hannibal.

"It used to be _you_ ," Will murmurs and his voice is shaky. "Used to be how-how I saw the Ripper, at least." His hands grip tight at Hannibal's hair and even amidst the obscene sounds of Hannibal's quick thrusts into his body, amidst his heavy breathing and squirming along the bed, Will can hear the blood start to slosh along the floor and he knows it's rising. No corpses this time, though. He's not bleeding, Abigail's not bleeding. His stag is alright.

"I've fought it, saw it imposed over Tier. Saw your... Your face over it too, but I guess... It's never really hurt me." The realization has Will's grip relaxing some. His breathing is ragged, Will's sweaty from arousal coursing through his veins. Despite the newness of this all, he's fairly sure he's getting closer to coming.

* * *

How Hannibal wishes he could be privy to the thoughts in Will's mind, his unique brand of insanity that complements their reality so beautifully. Will has only ever described his hallucinations to him before vaguely, an artist describing the elegant chiaroscuro in their painting to someone who cannot open their eyes. So much is lost in simple speech but Hannibal attempts to imagine what Will must have been seeing, and while he finds the idea of a delayed metamorphosis beautiful, he knows Will fears it. ' _You delight. I tolerate,_ ' he'd said once, his voice so even and measured that he could have built a wall between them with its construction. He had. But now the wall is falling apart. There are violent twists under Will's skin, desires bleeding forth that he hadn't so much as been able to imagine before. To Hannibal, it's beautiful. To Will, it must be just short of terrifying. The wall is crumbling and bit by bit, his facade is failing. Perhaps it is not impossible to imagine that Will - if only a little - has _begun_ to delight.

The thought sends an aching shiver through Hannibal's skin and he breathes deeply as his teeth catch along the edge of Will's chest. He doesn't bite at his nipple, though he _is_ tempted. Will doesn't enjoy the sensation nearly as much as he does, and right now he wishes to allow Will to ride high on pleasure, on truth. Will's voice is shaky as he fumbles for it again and Hannibal looks up at him, at the deep flush to Will's skin, at the bitten redness to his lips, at the sweat pooling artfully in the hollow of Will's throat. Hannibal doesn't relent; he _takes_ as Will has asked him to, rougher, his fingers pressing in deep. He watches the response, the way Will squirms, the way his breathing grows ragged, and the deep flush to his cock as he leaks precome over his own skin.

"You've struggled with it, yet it's never injured you. Perhaps once it represented me. Perhaps it still does. Or maybe it's changing. Maybe we've both changed," Hannibal murmurs, his own voice tight and breathless. Will's grip in his hair is more than enough to entice, but watching the beautiful arch and writhing of Will's body - feeling the tight clench around his fingers - is maddening. Hannibal presses just close enough to press his cock along Will's hip, rocking against him only once. They're both in this, in this conversation, and Hannibal presses a kiss to the center of Will's chest. His fingers press in harder, curling on every thrust, and Hannibal breathes a low groan under his breath.

"You're stunning like this, Will. Perfect. So good for me."

* * *

' _Maybe we've both changed,'_ Hannibal says and the words feel like they've been incised on Will's skin. It's a sharp pain, a surgical cut and only the hint of a scar would be left behind. Hannibal Lecter isn't the Chesapeake Ripper anymore; he isn't a part of Baltimore's high society, he's not living lavishly in Europe or locked up like a monster. Will Graham isn't the same man he was before. He's not wearing glasses to hide himself from students. He’s not waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares while trying to impress Jack and 'do good.' He's not attempting to rearrange himself to fit into a ready-made family either. They're _together_ , surviving, nestled away in a farmhouse, two creatures whose lives have become helplessly conjoined. Time and tenderness have healed the injuries they sustained. Time and tenderness have also healed the wounds in Will's heart, the hurt and anger dug away, making room for love.

And maybe it's a twisted tree that's growing, its roots spreading and expanding, breaking through cement and having no plans to stop. A hungry tree for the wendigo to hide behind. Hannibal's fingers are hungry, they thrust, persistent, and sensation climbs as he knows the blood levels are doing so in the room. Will has the irrational fear of drowning, a part of him wants to clamber from this vulnerable position, to get to his feet and stand -- to be prepared to swim. He has to tell his mind that it's _not_ real. Hannibal is real, the blood is a hallucination. Hannibal _has_ him. Will's safe. He's also stunning, perfect and good. Will's lips twitch into a small smile; Hannibal's praise is a warmth splashing over him--

No. That's not quite right, because Will can feel the blood against the heel of his feet and it spreads along, soaking into the bed and underneath him. Will flinches, but the intensity of being fucked and feeling both Hannibal and his cock against him reminds Will that he's safe. His fingers curl into Hannibal's hair and pull a little. Together. Together. Together. The blood isn't cool and it's not a shock to his system.

"I feel it," Will confesses. "The blood's filling our room." Will shakes his head; he feels a little crazy voicing it, but why keep it in? Hannibal hadn't judged him before; Hannibal's never judged him. "Maybe it's a rebirth?" Will goes on. He thinks of a fetus kept warm in a womb (he thinks of himself becoming the wendigo with Hannibal). "Tu m'as. Tu m'as..." Will takes a deeper breath and let's go, letting the blood surround him. "S'il te plaît, baise-moi... Plus vite, plus vite! "

( _You have me. You have me... Please, fuck me... Faster, faster._ )

* * *

Will is getting close; Hannibal can feel it in every twitch of his muscles, can hear it in every shuddering breath he lets out. Yet as he pushes, as he feels Will's hands clench tight in his hair and as he listens to Will's ragged breathing, he wonders if Will isn't also stretching beyond his grasp. He's a transient creature jumping from one state of being to the next. One moment Will is with him, his fingers tight, his gasps sharp, and the next he's looking beyond the hand Hannibal has over his eyes. He's seeing more in his own mind, a masterpiece in constant creation that Hannibal will never be able to witness. He resents the distance as much as he respects it, and when he feels Will drifting every few seconds, Hannibal curls his fingers harder and thrusts a little deeper, selfishly forcing Will's attention back to him, where he wants it.

Around them, the room remains clear in his perception and fills with blood in Will's. Hannibal can feel no wet warmth threatening to drown him. He can only feel Will's desperate twitches and the rolling of his hips. He can feel Will's flushed skin against his lips, can taste his heat and the salt of his sweat. He can hear his gasps, can smell his arousal, and he can see the desperate image Will makes against the sheets. Bruises will bloom over pale skin in time but Will is a vision. Regardless of what Will's reality might say, every one of Hannibal's senses is eclipsed by Will Graham. So when Will finally confesses, his voice a shivering, stuttering warmth as Hannibal feels the telltale tightening of impending orgasm wrapped around his fingers, Hannibal listens and attempts to imagine what Will is seeing. He pictures blood lapping warmly at their skin, and how beautiful Will looks while swathed in red. He pictures Will wielding his own majesty, a master of his own desires - sexual and otherwise - and as the gasped, desperate French escapes him, Hannibal groans low and leans up enough to press a biting kiss to the elegant jut of Will's throat.

"I've got you," Hannibal promises, letting the words bleed out into Will's skin like a brand. "Focus on me, Will. If this is to be a rebirth, it will be one for us both. I'm right beside you; you're not alone." His teeth scrape roughly over Will's throat then and Hannibal drops all pretense. Will wishes rougher, harder, and faster? Hannibal will oblige him. Perhaps one day when Will is ready, when he _wants_ something slower, Hannibal will take his time and carefully take Will apart despite his begging. He won't do that now. _Now_ he merely speeds up, propping himself up just enough with his elbow to get the leverage he needs in order to give Will what he's asked for. There's a low sound that burns hot in Hannibal's throat as he shoves one leg up, angling Will's hips up just a little higher to make the angle better. Every third thrust, he twists his fingers and then pushes them back in, working Will closer.

"I want you to relax for me. Focus on my voice. On how this feels. It will feel intense," Hannibal breathes, "but I want you to let it. I want you to come for me."

* * *

One day Hannibal will really fuck him. One day Hannibal will bury his cock deep inside and they'll be conjoined in another way. One day Will is going to let Hannibal make love to him as slow as the older man desires. One day Will is going to say that he loves Hannibal with every single cell of his body and that, even with all of his imagination, he _can't_ imagine a life without Hannibal next to him. One day he's going to make Hannibal promise him that, if Hannibal's attention were to ever wane, or if the walls were closing in around them, Hannibal is to wrap his hands around his neck and choke the life out of him; and, if time permits, Hannibal is to eat his heart. (Hannibal already has it, so why not consume the organ too. Didn't even have to be prepared, Will can appreciate blood staining Hannibal's lips and teeth.)

Today is not that day. Today Hannibal's fingers pump into his ass and fuck him. Today Hannibal's other hand covers his eyes to shield him from the hallucination. Today tolerance becomes delight and they're bathed in black blood that's warm and sloshes around their limbs. Today Will trusts and that Hannibal _has_ him. Today Will asks for faster and Hannibal doesn't disappoint. Today Will focuses on Hannibal and he doesn't know if he's explained himself properly, he knows there's to be more talking, but he does believe that this is a rebirth for the both of them. Today. Together.

Teeth scrape along Will's neck and Will arches into it. Cries are wrenched out of him as Hannibal's fingers thrust into him faster. Will allows his hips to be moved, completely at Hannibal's mercy as pleasure wars with intensity. Hannibal isn't lying. Will shudders from the overwhelming intensity when his prostate is glanced. The scent of blood is cloying. He may not be able to see it, but Will can still hear and feel it. It doesn't seem to be rising anymore, but Will isn't afraid now. His hands let go of Hannibal's hair and he reaches down to brush his fingers into the wetness that accepts him.

When he comes for Hannibal, Will is shaking and gives a near shout as his cock pulsates and a wetness enters the mix, landing hot on his abdomen, splattered across Hannibal's forgiveness.

* * *

Hannibal watches Will closely, his gaze rapt as Will's pleasure mounts. He's a vision like this, desperation carved into every line of his body, his muscles standing out in harshly-shaded contrast against his skin. It's like this - with his own clarity in the face of Will's pleasure - that Hannibal allows himself the pleasure of watching Will fall apart. The months of injury have waned; once sallow skin has brightened and Will's muscles have strengthened almost to the point that they'd been prior to their Fall. There is nothing but rapt admiration in Hannibal's eyes as Will twists beneath him, as he tips his head back to bare his throat and tendons stand out starkly against his skin.

Were this more guided and were Will more relaxed, Hannibal might have instructed him to slow his breathing, to relax his muscles in order to draw out the greatest possible pleasure. That isn't what Will needs right now. Like their altercation downstairs, Will needs a level of violence. He needs to _feel_ the change he's undergoing, to feel it etched viscerally into his skin like the intricate carvings of one of Hannibal's scalpels. He needs something he'll be able to feel the next day, needs to feel like there is a balance that has shifted. Yet despite all that he still needs to feel like Hannibal has him, so Hannibal ensures he's pressed himself close to Will's side. He murmurs rougher encouragement under his breath and scrapes his teeth over Will's skin, and when the pulsing of Will's muscles around his fingers suddenly increases, Hannibal murmurs a quiet,

"That's it, Will," under his breath and lets Will touch the sheets.

When Will comes, his near-shout is almost deafening, battered and drowned by each of his ragged breaths. Hannibal's gaze goes unfocused as arousal tears through him, but he doesn't stop. He takes Will hard with his fingers until he can't, until Will's muscles clamp down around them in a spasm that has Hannibal's breath ripped from his lungs. He swallows thickly as Will comes all over his scar and Hannibal groans low under his breath, rubbing his fingers in deft, quick circles to draw out Will's orgasm as long as he can. There is no part of him that doesn't want to lean down and flatten his tongue over Will's scar. But he stays where he is, stimulating Will's prostate until the edge of pleasure begins to creep too high, and only then does Hannibal slow and then stop.

He leans in enough to nuzzle at Will's skin, mouthing at his throat, his clavicle, and murmuring soft notes of praise under his breath because he knows he can like this. "Just as I asked, Will. Stunning, beautiful. I'm proud of you," Hannibal praises quietly. "Are you alright?"

* * *

It's _more_ and it's _closer_. Will's heart hammers in his chest, blood circulating through his body as he feels his hands sink into the warmth in the womb that surrounds him. Hannibal is close, next to him with Will's own sweat sliding between them. Sharp teeth graze over willing skin while Hannibal's motions are unrelenting. Hannibal's fingers drive inside and coax out a crashing orgasm while he murmurs support, because Hannibal wants this. White hot bliss surges through Will as he gasps and shakes. (Will had asked for rough, for faster, and it's been given to him. He may shake, but he doesn't fall apart.)

Maybe the blood is offering a believer's baptism, a sacrament for them both to take part in because Hannibal makes Will a believer in the divine again. They have their own unique religion, a sustaining faith and enduring belief in each other. They create their own narrative, their own meaning of life, and Will shudders as Hannibal's fingers twist and rub until Will's certain that it's him mumbling out 'stop' and Hannibal ceasing shortly thereafter, his fingers still encased inside but no longer moving.

It sounds like Hannibal is praying, sweet words worshipped into his skin as he nuzzles. Will blinks, but there's only darkness from his imposed blindness. Dazed, a shaky arm moves up to grasp onto Hannibal's wrist and Will pulls his hand away. And just like that, Will can see again. His hand drifts upward and he interlocks their fingers together. Conjoined once more. There is no blood filling the room, there's just Hannibal gazing at him and Will sees love and pride.

"It's beautiful," Will says, voice hoarse from pleasure. His bangs are plastered to his forehead as he fights to calm down from the throes of both an emotional and physical onslaught.

(He means Hannibal. He means their love. He means _them_.)

* * *

What a gloriously beautiful creature. Will Graham in orgasmic and post-orgasmic bliss, his breathing rough and ragged and his body trembling and twitching in pleasure. Even as it becomes too much and Will near-drunkenly tells him to stop, Hannibal does, but the reverence in his gaze doesn't vanish. He gazes down Will's body, all the way down to his cock, which had been left untouched. Yet there is still come cooling over Will's skin, and Hannibal knows that eventually Will is going to realize what an accomplishment this is, but he's far too dazed and far too complacent to think beyond the physical and his hallucination.

Hannibal keeps his hand over Will's eyes in the event that the blood supposedly swallowing them is too much to bear. Yet it doesn't take long for Will's hand to reach up and shakily ease Hannibal's away. Their fingers intertwine and Hannibal's breath catches as he looks at Will, not only at how dazed he looks but at how satisfied and shaken he seems. His eyes are bright and so blue, and Hannibal squeezes Will's hand slowly as Will recovers beneath him. It takes him a few moments of slow nuzzling for Will's vice-grip around his fingers to relax, and Hannibal is careful as he eases them back out. He wipes his hand absently over the sheets, then immediately he's touching Will's legs, his sides, his chest, a constant pressure and attention to distract him from the answering emptiness.

Will speaks and Hannibal nods, admiring how wrecked Will looks. Arousal curls hotly through Hannibal's body and he does want, but far more than that is his desire to see Will like this, changed and altered by something Hannibal cannot physically see. It's enough that Will can see it. And as he squeezes Will's hand again, Hannibal carefully braces himself and then leans over, brushing his lips over Will's once, then leaning in to kiss him properly. Despite his own desire, it's soft and coaxing, an agreement instead of a statement of arousal. It's ownership and subjugation and Hannibal tastes Will's lips, imagining he can sample the blood Will can still probably see around them.

He'll clean them up in time. He might ask Will to touch him, or he might not. When Will can properly appreciate it, he'll work his way down to Will's thigh and set his teeth against it. He'll bite him the way Will had asked him to, and he'll taste salt and copper against his tongue for real. For now, all that matters is kissing Will, is touching his skin, is holding him close. Hannibal strokes the back of his hand over Will's cheek, then breaks away to press his lips to Will's forehead instead.

"Yes. It is."


	4. Ache/Assurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Artful and rugged, timid but fierce. A complete dichotomy within your own skin. My impossible, reckless boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter took a while, but it's a glorious labor of love from us to you. Happy New Year, folks. We still love these fuckers/this story. (°◡°♡) 
> 
> Merry's [tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Dapperscript's [tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> 

 

Will hasn't tried doing anything dominant with Hannibal since his fuck up in the kitchen. He doesn't really think it would go over well. He still likens his actions to be on the same level as kicking a puppy. Hannibal hadn't _wanted_ to submit then and there, but he had anyway. And Will hadn't been able to keep his fucking mouth shut about Jack and the injury to Hannibal's leg. Hannibal hasn't said anything about it either. Will's kinda glad for that. Will knows that it's up to him to bring it up. It's up to him to talk about _anything_ that happened on that day. But Hannibal is being respectful. Not distant. Never distant. Not anymore, at least.

Of course, the day had _ended_ well. After the sparring, after experiencing Hannibal's physical skill and cunning, and even with a hallucination, Will had still managed to hold it together. Hannibal had obliged him (naturally) and skilled fingers had pushed inside and fucked him until he'd came. Whenever Will thinks about it, his cheeks heat a little at the thought. It'd felt strange to be at Hannibal's mercy... but had he been really? Will knows he was the one that had dictated the pace. He'd asked for the fingering to begin with. Will had instructed Hannibal to first cover his mouth and then his eyes. Will had asked it for rougher... And Hannibal hadn't let him fall. Hannibal had given him what he'd needed.

Whether it's sparring or fucking... Hannibal is there for him. They've done the former a few times since then. Will likes it more than he should. He's sure Hannibal has noticed. Together they flirt with violence, and despite the soreness after, the few bruises that crop up, Will feels closer to Hannibal.

He went back for the second fitting of his suit and didn't even make a scene. No storming out. Will behaved. It doesn't feel strange to have Hannibal playing dress up with him because that's not _really_ what's happening. More and more Will sheds who he used to be, cheaper plain clothing folded and put away into drawers. Will lets Hannibal buy him some nicer things. Nothing like a damn bespoke suit, but the fabrics and cuts are more flattering (even he can tell). Will doesn't feel like he's becoming Hannibal or losing himself. Once he would have worried about that, but Hannibal's steady patience has allowed him to be whoever he wants to be and take whatever pace he needs.

Will still remembers his statement of, ' _I don't want to play house anymore.'_ He's been there, done that. It hadn't exactly felt like such a huge farce _then._ Will thinks he'd honestly needed a reprieve from the chaos. So, he'd curled up into the safety of _family,_ a concept he remembers telling Hannibal that had never seemed to fit for him. Had it all been an act? Will's not entirely sure. A part of him _had_ enjoyed the simplicity, or at least found a measure of peace there. Perhaps he hadn't been content, but he'd been _all right_.

He can't see the band on his finger anymore. He's purposefully gone outside without gloves to ensure that the lighter skin on his finger tanned. Will wonders if Hannibal would ever, one day, buy him a ring and slip it on. It's a thought that hurts in his chest and he doesn't let himself dwell on it.

(It's a good kind of hurt.)

The drive to the opera is a quiet one. He's dressed up for Hannibal -- Will Graham with more than some spit 'n polish. His hair is styled back a little and his facial hair is trimmed. (Will briefly considered going clean shaven, but he had the feeling that he'd look way too young next to Hannibal.) While it's not the first time he's worn a suit, it's the first time he's worn something so expensive -- something so Hannibal. This. _This_ is for Hannibal, but it's okay. He's okay. How many times has Hannibal bent for him? (And maybe, just maybe, Will is curious how it will be to revisit Hannibal's former world.)

He wondered if he'd ever hold Hannibal's hand in public... He's holding his hand now, reaching across the distance between them, Hannibal driving with one hand (even though he'd prefer to use two). "I'll try my best to follow along with it all," Will suddenly says. It's then he realizes he's holding onto Hannibal's hand a little too tightly and Will forces his grip to relax.

* * *

A simple admission for a volatile truth. ' _I don't want to play house anymore.'_ Seven words, and the difference they bring is astounding.

Once he's made aware of the problem - that Will has been suffering violent urges and crippling loneliness from the belief he's been alone in his darkness- Hannibal can take action. He does. While he introduces the concept slowly - allowing them both time to calm down after the emotional intensity of that afternoon - it isn't long before Will catches on. There are substitutes for violence: exercise, swearing, and sex. In a way, with Will, they utilize all three, but not as a substitute for violence. With careful attention to injuries and Will's mental state in mind, Hannibal opens the invitation to spar again over dinner one evening. It's casual, but Will seems heartened by it, and though there's a measure of uncertainty at first, it isn't long before it becomes a sort of release. Not only for Will, but for them both.

While Will avoids talks of dominance (though they will need to talk about it again soon) and makes no mention of the evening where he'd pointed out Hannibal's leg, _this_ is something that seems to give him a sense of escapism and freedom.

He's a quick study, Hannibal soon learns. While Hannibal has far more practice, Will is not without his own skill. Secretly he's delighted; the challenge of sparring with Will is fulfilling. He's quick to learn, he doesn't always spar fairly, and he's got his academy training behind him. It takes effort to stay ahead, and yet Hannibal takes pride in their mutual bruises, though more in the ones on his own skin. He enjoys seeing a physical measure of Will's progress, of his confidence. Perhaps there is much they still need to discuss, but sparring offers them an outlet when Will's complacency runs out.

Yet as the weeks pass, Hannibal is not the only one to make concessions, as Will's growing wardrobe can attest to. It's done carefully. Will offers him the chance one morning and Hannibal takes it gladly. They start small, with short visits to local boutiques. Hannibal memorizes Will's measurements so as to avoid the hassle of him needing to stay still for them in the future, and while Will's taste runs far more modest than Hannibal's does, Hannibal is satisfied by Will's choices. He isn't surprised that Will seems pleased.

But he is surprised by Will's request.

Even a week later, he can remember the circumstances. He can recall the way he'd noticed the disappearance of the pale band of skin on Will's finger one morning while out on a walk. He can recall the way he'd touched it, admiring the more uniform look. And he can remember the way Will had turned to him with purpose and had asked Hannibal to take him out. Properly this time. High society. To something _Hannibal_ would have enjoyed. He'd been unable to deny such a request.

Which finds them in the car a week later, Will dressed smartly in the blue suit Hannibal had commissioned for him from the tailor, and Hannibal dressed in a slightly more modest grey herringbone suit. As Hannibal drives, he can't help but glance over at Will, admiring the striking figure he cuts like this. His hair is styled and striking and his facial hair is carefully trimmed to create a sharper shape around his jaw. He looks _good_. He looks confident, powerful. Hannibal has no complaints.

Though admittedly he's biased. He's driving one-handed after all, his other hand carefully clasped with Will's. That it had been Will's idea is still a wonder. Holding hands... such a simple thing, and yet so poignant, especially for them. Given all their hands have done to one another. Hannibal gives Will's hand a small squeeze, and at the next light, he looks down at their joined hands despite the darkness of the vehicle. He slowly strokes his thumb over the back of Will's knuckles, tracing his ring finger reverently. Hannibal doesn't need to say anything; he has no doubt that Will understands.

Will's comment is sudden. For the most part, the drive has been undertaken in silence, but Hannibal doesn't resent the sound of Will's voice. Instead he merely glances at him and then nods, his expression mild but posture all but seeping his satisfaction. When Will's grip eases, Hannibal tightens his own, as if to compensate. "While opera can be a dramatic storytelling, the art isn't in the actions or the production. The story is in the voices. It's why I selected this and not another activity."

Which is mostly true. This merely seems a safe way to introduce Will to the concept of something _more_. He'd considered an art exhibit initially, or fine dining, but he wants to spare Will the obligation of socialization. They'll be seated in a private box, the lights dim, a part of the overall group but disconnected for Will's sake. Hannibal turns just enough while the light is still red and lifts their combined hands to press a kiss to Will's knuckles.

"Even if you don't understand the story - and I will do my best to explain - your empathy should assist you in understanding the emotions. Music has a way of touching and influencing the soul. Any composer would say the same."

* * *

Will doesn't want to be nervous about this, but he can't help but be keenly aware that he's trying to dabble in Hannibal's former world. He's an impostor, dressed up and hoping to slip by. Suits and gowns, jewelry and flashy smiles. Bedelia Du Maurier managed just fine, but what about Will Graham? How much fake laughter will he hear? Will his scars attract eyes? Like blood in the water, will they smell him? Will he stand out?

(He feels better after Hannibal strokes a certain finger, it's promise and praise...)

Of course, no one will be overly rude about it. About him. Or _them_. Certainly not like Freddie, the rude redheaded bitch she was... Two men going to the opera, one older gentleman, obviously at ease and practiced with the rituals of such a social gathering. Refined, foreign, but well spoken in French. Intelligent. His partner though, looking the part, but often looking away. Avoiding eye contact. Shy. Not used to the money, not used to the suit, not used to a man--

Great, he's empathizing with the mere _thoughts_ of a socialite. Hannibal's grip tightening brings him back. The words 'dramatic storytelling' resonate with Will. The Ripper's - Hannibal's - tableaus were just that, weren't they? Bodies elevated into art. _Changed_. He wonders what Hannibal could teach him... Cooking, sparring-- Will glances down at his lap when Hannibal kisses his knuckles.

_'Music has a way of touching and influencing the soul.'_

"You must be music then," Will says without thinking. He then realizes how absolutely _cheesy_ that sounds and tries to pull his hand away, angling his body away from Hannibal. Embarrassment slides in and Will mentally curses at himself. He feels all sorts of dumb from his admission. Like he wants to talk about Hannibal fucking touching his soul right now.

* * *

Will's nerves are painfully obvious even in the darkened vehicle. Hannibal doesn't need to be looking at Will to understand him, to see the stress etched into his features, the uncertainty lining his face. Hannibal spares him a look. While Will's hair is styled and his stubble has been allowed to grow out just enough to shield the worst of the scar on Will's face, he is no more hiding behind his attire now than he ever has. (With the exception of Henri, Hannibal reminds himself bitterly, but the thought is one he dismisses again before long. He doesn't need it, not in this setting.)

So Hannibal attempts to soothe him with a kiss. It's nothing extravagant, a mere press of lips to Will's knuckles, but Will looks down at his lap after. Hannibal's eyes are on him. Yet there is no way he could have hoped to miss Will's following comment. It's sudden, said immediately, said so quickly that he clearly hadn't meant to say it, and Hannibal draws back just enough to shoot Will a mild look of surprise. His eyebrows lift minutely, just enough to show that he hadn't anticipated that comment.

Will immediately looks away, and Hannibal wonders once more how this man continues to both surprise him and endear Hannibal to him even now. He feels a tug at his hand - undoubtedly Will's attempt to hide - and he tightens his hold. Glancing at the light (still red), Hannibal gives Will's hand another squeeze as his thumb traces over the back of Will's knuckles. Instead of kissing his hand again, Hannibal leans over and closes the distance between them.

He does nothing but press a kiss just below Will's ear. It's all he can reach with Will turned away from him like this, but he believes the effect might help. "Thank you, Will," he says simply, honestly. "I would hope that if that is an effect I have on you, that I shall never lose that ability." Hannibal strokes his thumb over Will's knuckles again, slower this time. Then he moves it back and down, tracing over the thin skin of his wrist, under the platinum cufflinks on Will's sleeves.

"You needn't turn away. I am... pleased."

* * *

Will is trapped. Hannibal doesn't let him pull his hand away and he's in a car. He's not about to try and book it over an overly sentimental statement either. Perhaps earlier on Hannibal would have let him get away with such an action (at least the retracting of his hand), but not now. Hannibal squeezes his hand -- a show of support, of comfort. Will is a collector of such gestures and he can't even be upset by the realization. It is what it is. Hannibal comforts him and Hannibal adapts to what he needs. With what seems like an effortless grace at times, Hannibal waltzes through the various roles: lover, doctor, friend, psychiatrist, father, partner. Hannibal _loves_ him and sometimes the gravity of such knowledge is _heavy_.

Heavy enough for Will to be here and making an effort in this pursuit. New skin, same insides. Well, maybe not the same insides. The word 'date' hasn't escaped Will either. He hasn't said it aloud to Hannibal (for the last time had been a ruse, a hunting trip, a _deception_ ). But this is an evening out together. A date. The kiss to his skin has Will relaxing some. Hannibal's mouth is skilled. The thought makes Will flush. Hannibal's words - fucking honest and genuine - only solidify the warmth of Will's chest and face.

He can't help but scoff lightly, "Of course you're pleased."

But Will isn't pulling away and he's turning back to at least face forward. He's making an effort to behave. Because Hannibal has touched his soul. Hannibal _does_. And it's both terrifying and exhilarating. Each of Hannibal's actions is meant soothe, the touch to his wrist no different, and Will shivers at the thought of Hannibal knowing him so well. But why shouldn't he by now? It's been months and months sequestered away and Will is still sometimes honestly amazed they're still managing it.

"Sorry," he mumbles out, his other hand coming to rub at his face. The light changes color and the car smoothly accelerates. "Bit on edge, but I'm fine." Will doesn't want to run away. He's done enough of that. He's fine. He'll be fine doing this. Hannibal deserves this and Will wants to give this to him.

* * *

While Hannibal does keep an eye on the light to ensure he doesn't hold up traffic, he cares little whether or not he misses the change. Like this, Will is his focus. He can't help but remember the days early on where Will's response would have been different. Instead of simply turning away, he'd have pulled away, looked away, crossed his arms, and closed in on himself. Hannibal can remember that response time and time again. A kiss shared, softly whispered words, and Will had been receptive until he hadn't been. His eyes had once clouded in surprise and then closed off, his posture closed, his words sharp, and Hannibal had let him have that distance. Again, hands touching accidentally, and Will would have once recoiled like he'd been slapped. Verbal lashing, physical altercations, Will had once been fine with all of them.

Yet now, clearly uncomfortable, he merely turns away, and Hannibal feels a familiar twist in his chest that is clearly fondness for this man. He strokes Will's wrist, touches him slowly and marvels that he can now. Though it does take awhile for Will to loosen himself from whatever embarrassed trap he'd caught himself in, when Will finally begins to relax, he does so carefully. There's no gruff dismissal, no clipped curse. He merely turns to face ahead and Hannibal watches, silently amazed that despite everything that has happened recently, despite everything they've not talked about, Will still feels safe enough to show himself like this.

The light changes and Hannibal reluctantly turns his attention forwards. The car moves smoothly down the road towards the opera house and as Hannibal drives, he doesn't take his hand back. Instead he traces the bare strip of skin on Will's knuckle; even now he’s amazed that Will had done such a thing for him. The apology that follows is surprising, but it's just one more morsel of proof that things are different now. Hannibal squeezes his hand again.

"You needn't apologize. I'm aware that this isn't anywhere near your comfort zone. Yet all I require from you is your presence. We have a private box, so you'll not need to interact with anyone or risk eye contact. If you decide it's not something you enjoy, there are other mediums we can attempt down the road, if you'll allow."

He doesn't say the word 'date', as the word has been heavily tainted, but the word is still implied. There are plenty of places he could take Will, plenty of sights to see, plenty of ways for Hannibal to study his reactions, to learn his likes and dislikes. For now, they'll try the opera, and while Hannibal does miss it, he knows his focus will likely be on Will more than not.

* * *

He's doing this. _They're_ doing this. Will doesn't know which concept is more daunting. Playing dress up, going out with Hannibal. A date. In the public. Like they're a couple... But they are, aren't they? They live together. Sleep together. They fuck. Cook together. Hannibal loves him… Partners maybe? Will can't quite think of Hannibal as his _boyfriend_. Hannibal would likely abhor the term anyway. What do you call the man who has obliterated your life but steadily built you back up? A man who has _taken_ but also given you so much? That endearing patience, the almost insufferable degree of care at times, the threat and danger of a predator for a mate who will allow you your darkness...

It's sometimes too much. It's sometimes like Hannibal is choking him. Care and love are shown in a variety of ways... Hannibal is ever thoughtful, accommodating him, even now, even after everything. It makes Will's chest feel tight to know what he's gotten away with. Mistreating Hannibal in the beginning, being so goddamn difficult, then Henri, and then most recently abusing his foray into dominance whilst in the kitchen. Doing this for Hannibal won't undo his past fuck ups, but maybe he wants to try and counter some of the negative moments by creating new memories with Hannibal.

"I'll be fine," Will stubbornly asserts and continues to hold onto Hannibal's hand. The opera and wearing fancy clothes is not his traditional go-to idea of a date, but he's committed. Hannibal deserves this. Will's never been the type to even _do_ dates in any sense of the word, but the idea of a date _with_ Hannibal still appeals. It's further proof that Will is different. That he is changing. _Changed_. Because of Hannibal. With Hannibal.

Before Hannibal can reply, the sound of horns blaring, tires screeching and metal crunching has Will startling and Hannibal letting go of his hand to grab onto the steering wheel with both hands. In front of them, two vehicles have just got into an oncoming collision.

"Shit!" Will curses, his instincts already have him reaching for his cell to call 9-1-1.

* * *

There is a part of Hannibal that wishes to push, to carefully peel back a layer of Will's defensiveness in the hopes of helping him feel more secure, but despite that desire, Hannibal resists the urge. This is neither the time nor place for it and the opera house isn't far. Instead he nods, silently accepting Will's insistence, and then turns his attention back to the road ahead.

Everything is fine for a half a second. As soon as that second finishes, Hannibal sees one of the cars beside them begin to veer and sees another car beginning to turn, and despite the way he tenses, it's too late. He watches as the two cars meet almost head-on, the sound of screeching metal and squealing tires loud enough that it seems to shock Will to his core. Around them, cars screech the brakes and the sound of people shouting is loud. Hannibal wrenches his hand back to correct his own driving and to ensure Will is safe, but he'd not missed the way Will had cursed, and he sees Will fumble for his phone. Calling 9-1-1 is dangerous in their position as it means they're expected to _stay_ on the scene, but despite Hannibal's uncertainty, Will has already subconsciously made the decision.

Hannibal brakes and signals before veering the car off to the side to allow traffic to pass. He cranes his neck back and looks at the two vehicles. The driver's-side door is crushed in on one car and the front-end is broken in the other. One of the cars is an older model though, and when Hannibal catches sight of the broken glass and the blood on the windshield, he makes his decision.

"Call the police and then come join me," he instructs firmly, and then he undoes his seat belt and climbs from the car.

Already he can hear shouting and worried exclamations. People yell in French for a doctor, and while this is not something Hannibal normally does, it _is_ something he's capable of. He crosses the lanes of traffic quickly and draws his coat in tighter against his throat, and while one man does try to block his path, his eyes wide in panic, Hannibal merely says, "je suis un médecin," and the man immediately steps aside.

With horns blaring and headlights blinding, Hannibal quickly assesses the cars. He sees no billowing smoke and while there are broken headlights and the frames of the cars look destroyed, he sees no immediate cause for concern over a fire. So as he rushes through, Hannibal walks around to the other side of the car and opens the passenger's door of the car with the crumpled driver's-side door, where he'd seen the blood. All he needs to do is look one second before his breath catches.

Shards from the window had flown out and cut across the woman's throat. Hannibal can see her clutching at her own throat and while he wishes to assess her for more damage, he can't. Instead he places his hand along the back of her neck to feel for breaks or slippages, but when he finds none, he undoes her seat belt and quickly pulls her back from the car. She fights him, panicked, stinking of cheap perfume and fear, but he persists. She's younger - no older than thirty - and while the blood is not spurting arterial spray, it's close. Immediately he has help when he transports her from the car, and a group of bystanders help him get her to a small grass-covered island beside the street.

"Someone is already calling the police. You," he says, to a woman who keeps babbling in English, "check the other vehicle. Open the door, do _not_ move the occupants. Now," Hannibal insists, and she scurries to do so. Hannibal quickly sheds his coat and his suit jacket, throwing his tie haphazardly over his shoulder. There's no hope for his sleeves. Hannibal shifts so the headlights from the car illuminate his work-space, and while the woman whimpers and tries to fight him still, he eventually manages to wrestle her hand away from her neck and look. A partially-severed artery is what he sees immediately, and while time is not on his side, Hannibal leans in over her and starts talking.

She's speaking rapid-fire Spanish, and while Hannibal is not as well-versed in it, he insists on telling her he's a doctor and that he can help. He's mindless of the tears of relief he sees in her eyes and instead he raises his voice, calling out, "David! Come here."

* * *

Adrenaline shoots through him and Will's immediately alert, his pulse picking up and his mind racing through the proper procedure in such a crisis. In the face of witnessing a fucking car crash, his worries about people watching him at the opera and sticking out are laughably silly. The crash looks pretty bad and it quickly puts things into perspective for Will. While he knows it's unwise to be making a call to the authorities (he'll have to give his fake name and number), Will knows he can't sit by and do _nothing_. He may have the desire to create chaos, the urge to hunt with Hannibal, but he's not so far gone that he can sit and be idle when a fucking car crash happens around him and people need help.

On the same wavelength as he is, Hannibal stops the car and it's honestly a relief that he doesn't need to ask for permission or explain himself, but why would he? Hannibal knows him. Hannibal knows that he would want to help. When the operator connects, Will bumbles through French, describing the accident, their location and giving his fake name as he struggles with his seat belt. He can already hear and see Hannibal taking control of the situation as he wrestles himself out of the car, leaving his phone on the seat.

He hears Hannibal call for him. Well, for David. His fake name. The name written on his fake driver's license and passport. Will jogs over to Hannibal, his hands trembling as he pulls to loosen his tie. He tries to ignore the frantic atmosphere, his eyes focused on Hannibal. There's panic and disorder and people and--

Blood. The woman Hannibal is helping is lying prone and bleeding from her neck. Immediately he sees Abigail's mother sprawled out in front of their house, throat cut open, dying in front of him. Will blinks

and shakes his head. Abigail then superimposes over the woman, on Hannibal's kitchen floor as he crawled--

Will's head shakes again as he gets to his knees. He's got to keep it together. "What do you need me to do?" Will asks. Hannibal had saved Abigail. He wants to believe Hannibal can save this woman too.

* * *

It's reckless to call Will to the scene when he's already on the phone with the police. This is simply a reckless decision, but Hannibal believes he knows this man well enough by now to know that Will can't simply leave 'innocent people' to suffer. So Hannibal puts pressure on her neck, his fingers closing over the gash and the subsequent cut to her artery. He kneels with her and after a few moments of panic, her hands finally settle down and flex rhythmically, her eyes wide and filled with tears as horns blare and people shuffle about. Hannibal distantly takes note of the woman heeding his previous advice. In his peripheral vision, he watches as she runs to the other car and opens the door as requested, then hesitates. Hannibal turns his attention back to his hand on the young woman's throat and - over the din of voices as he adjusts his hold and feels the pulse under one of his fingers - he calls out, "I'll be there in a moment. Keep whoever it is still until I get there!"

He can feel Will's presence before he sees him. With his attention on the young woman, he doesn't look up immediately. Instead he keeps his gaze focused, feeling for the proper angle to keep her artery closed. Her breaths are quick and shallow with panic, her eyes wide, but aside from the sporadic twitch of her throat as she attempts to swallow, she's as calm as she can be. Hannibal doesn't look away until Will finally drops to his knees, and only then does he glance in Will's direction and listen to what Will asks him. Immediately Hannibal reaches over for Will's left hand - his own already bloodied - and wraps it around Will's wrist. Shuffling to the side on his knees, Hannibal draws his hand in and then carefully removes his own, quickly directing Will to place his own over the woman's neck.

"Hold this wound closed. I'll position your fingers properly. Exert pressure like this," Hannibal instructs carefully, and wraps his own hand around Will's, showing him precisely how much pressure to keep. Then he takes a moment to adjust Will's fingers to the precise position his own had been, until the bleeding slows to almost nothing. "Exactly like this. Just stay here, keep your hand here, and restrain her if she begins to panic."

Hannibal glances at the woman and rattles off a few words of Spanish - soft reassurances - and then reaches over to gently give Will's forearm a squeeze. Only then does he stand again and make his way over to the other vehicle.

"Any movement?" He asks the older woman he'd directed toward the car, and she shakes her head, looking both scared and relieved to have someone there to tell her what to do. He nods at her to stand aside and then reaches into the vehicle again, leaning in to check on its occupants.

His hands are quick and sure, checking an older man for breaks and slippages. Hannibal sees cursory wounds and a broken nose, and the airbag looks to have done more damage than not, yet there are no deeply-embedded shards of glass in the man. He's groggy, hardly-responsive, and with every passing pair of headlights, Hannibal watches his pupils struggle to adjust. A concussion then, and a severe one. Hannibal frowns and reaches in, undoing the seat belt and gingerly assisting him from the car. He instructs a group of nearby observers to lay him on his side, but immediately delivers the additional instruction to keep him _awake_. Then Hannibal turns back to the car.

There's a woman and a younger teenager within the vehicle, both unconscious but slowly coming around. He moves quickly before they can find the mind to protest. A quick assessment of both reveals nothing worse than whiplash to the neck, but the woman's leg is broken and she requires support. Hannibal tells another bystander to take the teenager from the car and within mere minutes, the occupants are free of the wreckage.

Hannibal tends to the woman first, and though he dislikes being so crude, he feels along the length of her leg, finds the break, and after bracing it with his hands, he pulls it back into place with a quick jerk. Her sudden consciousness is deafening despite the sounds of traffic all around her, and Hannibal immediately pushes her back, then directs other people to come by and hold her.

"Keep her leg steady," he commands, and then moves onto the teenager. Miraculously, he needs little assistance. He has minor bruising and whiplash and a few gashes and cuts on his face, but otherwise he's up and looking bleary and scared.

When Hannibal makes it back to Will, he can already hear the ambulance in the distance. He reaches down to press his bloodied hand over Will's, then leans in close enough so that Will can hear his voice over the din.

"Can you feel her pulse under your fingers? Is it still strong? Talk to me," he adds, just shy of urgent. He can see the shock skimming across Will's surface.

* * *

Hannibal's hands are bloody. The woman is terrified and desperate and clinging to hope as her eyes dart around wildly. Will tries to shake off the vestiges of Abigail's memory, but she clings to him like a second skin. Will bites at his bottom lip in hopes of grounding himself, but it doesn't really work. He can feel Hannibal assessing the situation, his mind quickly trying to organize the best plan of attack in dealing with everyone. Will has been out of the loop for a while now. He could attempt to corral bystanders, but he doesn't want to deal with people and questions being thrown his way right now. Lacking a badge is also a problem.

Apparently Hannibal wants him to stop the bleeding on her neck. Deja vu crashes over him, unforgiving and cold. His hands move on their own accord, or rather, Hannibal positions them. He feels detached from himself, but Will is compliant in this, the smell of blood and chaos mixing. The image of Abigail on her kitchen floor flickers over the woman, but Will miraculously doesn't lose his shit. He can remember the fear and desperation shooting through him as she lie gurgling on her blood and Hannibal... Hannibal had stepped in and saved the day. Saved _her._ Calm and collected, Hannibal's fingers had wrapped around her neck. Will had been shocked, the thrum of violence and power over recently taking a life at odds with the uncertainty of how to attempt to prevent Abigail Hobbs from bleeding out everywhere.

_'Saving lives is just as arousing as ending them.'_

Chilton's cutting line from his court hearing filters into his head. It pierces through the fog in Will's mind and Will pulls himself back together as best he can. He registers the assuring squeeze given to his arm and then Hannibal is off. Will's eyes can't help but try and follow as Hannibal works. He watches him check on other passengers and give instructions to the steadily growing observers the accident is gaining.

Hannibal is arguably the most prolific serial killer of their time and here he is managing this situation, saving lives. Will hasn't saved a life in… He wants to take them with Hannibal... His attention focuses only on Hannibal. All others fade, the sounds muting. There's noise and people scrambling, lights flashing and the night is chilly, but Will's hand remains firmly wrapped around the woman's bleeding neck.

And then Hannibal returns, kneeling beside him and a bloodied hand covers his own. He answers Hannibal's question in French. Yes, he can feel her pulse. Yes, it's strong. He catches Hannibal's eyes and Will feels dazed. He wants to flee from this situation. He wants to take Hannibal with him -- to take Hannibal away from everyone else, to not share. To hide Hannibal, and to hide _with_ Hannibal. Will needs time to process these thoughts, he wants to talk with Hannibal, to give sound to the ricocheting thoughts. He hears the snort of his stag, he feels it nuzzle at his head as it's comforting.

* * *

It's cruel to ask this of Will. Will Graham has never been the most stable man and yet asking him to put on a brave face and deal is cruel. Hannibal can't ask anyone else though, no one else who understands the severity of a slit throat. No one else he trusts with the hands to stop it. So he assigns Will his task as easily as he assigns tasks to other people, but it's Will who he's worried for, Will who he looks out for as he works. It's Will he returns to, and as much as Hannibal has taken charge of this situation, it is Will he's truly concerned about.

There are many risks in this. It's quite possible that they'll have to move on if this makes the news, but he plans to be far away from this if it does. To his knowledge, no one has been taking pictures. No one has truly seen their faces. Heads down, panic warping the image, the only people likely to remember them are the victims they're saving, and no one will believe them if ever they figure it out. So Hannibal listens to Will as the crowd converges on the injured people. He presses close to Will's side and soothes the woman with soft words that are truly meant for Will, and he keeps everything stable as the paramedics arrive.

It's a testament to the medical team that no one looks twice at him. Hannibal takes charge again when they arrive, standing from Will and quickly rattling off the diagnoses to the paramedics who make it out of the ambulance. One immediately comes to him but doesn't really look at him, hastily jotting everything down as he explains the situation. He explains that he _hadn't_ seen the accident (no witness statement) but he rattles off the exact injuries and the second the woman learns of the one on the ground with the half-severed artery, she's in action.

Hannibal quietly touches Will's shoulder and urges him to step away as two paramedics descend on the woman like avenging angels. They're quick and skilled, one moving to secure her neck while the other quickly checks her for further injuries. The other two are immediately with the rest of the family, and Hannibal doesn't wish to be here for much longer.

His hand doesn't leave Will's shoulder as he leans in, and his soft whisper of, "step back with me," is almost lost to the sirens.

Perhaps one or two people notice them leave, but it isn't long before one of the paramedics yells for everyone to step back and attention is immediately on the new saviors. Hands and face bloody (Hannibal had made sure to obscure his face, if only a little), Hannibal takes out a handkerchief from his pocket as he leads the way back to the car. He sits only long enough to wipe the blood closest to the corner of his mouth and then he glances at Will. He notes how shaken Will looks, how bloody, how unsettled, and Hannibal knows they're not making it to their destination. Instead he starts up the car and pulls back out into traffic, looking for the first exit to turn them around.

"Will. Will, are you all right? Do you want to go home?"

* * *

Saving lives, ending lives. Lines that shouldn't blur, but somehow they do. Chilton had actually been right for once. Will's thought more about the latter. He's talked more about the latter too. The pull of violence, the slick heat of spilled blood and fingers gripping knives, teeth ripping-- A fierce struggle. Will thinks he likes the struggle more. A fight. Henri hadn't been any struggle for Hannibal, but Dolarhyde had for the both of them. Tier had for himself. There's something savagely thrilling about a struggle for survival between two beasts.

But this is not where Will finds himself now. His stag is nearby. He doesn't even need to look for it. He can smell it. Feel it. Hear its steady breathing. The swell of everyone and everything else is like a dull buzzing. Hannibal is warm and near and Hannibal is orchestrating this triage. Will's never been the best in times of crises, but Hannibal keeps calm and directs. Will does his best to keep it together. The woman's pulse beats, her eyes are wide and fearful and blood fills Will's nostrils. But she doesn't bleed out. She's not gasping and frantic like Abigail had been.

Eventually the paramedics come. Hannibal pulls him away. Will is in a daze but compliant. Hannibal leads him back to their vehicle. Will gets into the passenger side. He does up the seat belt on autopilot. The car pulls away from his ravenstag and Will blinks at the animal as it stares back at him. The car pulls away from the accident -- the noise, the flashing lights, the chaos, the blood. Hannibal's questions eventually filter into his brain and Will licks his lips.

"Emmène-nous à la maison," he murmurs. _(Take us home.)_ He'd heard so much French at the scene. Trying to pick out the correct words is a task that helps him feel more grounded so Will tries.

"Hannibal, l'as-tu... sauvée?" _(Did you save her?)_

He knows the truth, but he asks it anyway.

* * *

There are many ways that the trip back home can go wrong and yet Hannibal isn't surprised to hear that Will wishes to return there. Despite everything that has happened there, having a foundation is important. Hannibal's not missed the fact that Will calls the house 'home' (so much so that he's begun to do it himself) and while he knows that could change in the blink of an eye, if Will finds comfort in the thought of 'home', Hannibal has no objections. Instead he looks over at him as the din of their audience and the wail of sirens begins to fade into the distance. Will looks shaken and pale - as much as Hannibal can see him in the dark - and there's blood on his hands and a little on his face. Whether arterial spray had hit him or he'd simply wiped a hand over his face is anyone's guess, but Hannibal still silently hands Will his handkerchief, setting it on his lap. They'll wash properly when they return to the house, but until then, Will needs a task to focus him. The fact that Will chooses to focus on French is perhaps not as much of a surprise as it should be. Translation can be calming, a focused activity to limit the wild scope of the mind. Hannibal glances at Will again and then, after a moment, he relents. If translation will focus Will properly, he will comply.

"Oui, Will. Je l'ai sauvée. Nous l'avons sauvée" ( _Yes, Will. I saved her. We saved her_.) Hannibal has no desire to limit Will's part in this. He can tell that Will is still shaken. He can see the cracks and fissures in his armor, can see that Will looks close to falling apart. So though it is a risk, Hannibal reaches over as he had before the crash and a slightly-bloodied hand finds Will's wrist, then Hannibal slides a touch down to Will's hand, lacing their fingers together to squeeze. The wetness of blood between them is a distraction but right now, Hannibal wishes only to see this man grounded. "Je veux que tu respires pour moi. Lentement." ( _I want you to breathe for me. Slowly.)_ Hannibal says, his voice low but firm. Even now he's taking charge, yet his focus is no longer on those left injured on the road. His focus is Will. In Hannibal's mind, Will is who truly matters to him.

"Focus on my breathing. Match yours to mine," he adds, in English. He wants Will's focus on him, wants to provide the foundation that Will needs so that he doesn't fall apart. Again.

* * *

No opera for them. No date night. Their clothes are bloody and dirty from kneeling on the ground. Hannibal's suit jacket has actually been left behind on the woman. The car is in motion, taking them further away from the carnage and closer to home. _Home_... It actually seems so long ago that it had bothered him that their little quaint house was beginning to feel like a home, that he considered it to be home. But Will knows that more than the four walls and the bed they share, _Hannibal_ is home. He's not naive enough to think that they will stay in this bubble forever. They've mended, healed, and been in a not-quite stasis. It's probably time to pack up, change aliases, move on.

' _Oui, Will. Je l'ai sauvée. Nous l'avons sauvée.'_

No beating around the bush. Hannibal doesn't even hesitate. Will knows it had been Hannibal's instruction that had saved the woman, but still the words - an almost accusation - swirl on his head. Will lets Hannibal hold his hand. The handkerchief remains untouched on his lap. Will first thinks the slickness between their hands is from him sweating, but things click onto place a moment later. It's blood.

But the woman hadn't bled out. Not like Abigail or her mother had. It does take him a few seconds to piece together Hannibal's instruction to breathe slowly. When Hannibal switches to English to reiterate Will leans over as best he can and rests the side of his head against Hannibal's shoulder and closes his eyes. Like this he can hear Hannibal's breathing. It does irritate a little that Hannibal is counting on breathing exercises to keep him together, but Will isn't on edge about care being shown to him. He knows he's a man who doesn't get to escape his rickety past. (He's far too precious to Hannibal to be allowed to do a thing like fall apart.)

Will listens. He matches the inhales and exhales of Hannibal. Breathing. _Alive_...

"I... Je l'ai vue," Will mumbles, his tone soft and uncertain, sounding all too resistant. ( _I_ _saw her_.) He doesn't have to use her name. But seeing Abigail hadn't really been the problem so Will continues. He has to. Keeping things in, turning away from Hannibal, they're not options he wants to take anymore.

"J'etais penser de tuer -- beaucoup, c'est trop..." ( _I've thought about killing -- a lot, too much.)_ Will squeezes Hannibal's hand tighter in frustration. His body tenses.

"Didn't expect to get so shaken up from seeing you - uh - save someone." It's only now that Will is beginning to realize a part of him is feeling a twist of arousal at Hannibal descending onto the scene, taking control and helping... On doing _good_.

* * *

Mere months ago, Will would have already fallen apart. Being around a crowd of people, being around a rush of violence and emotion, all the fear... he would have been curled up and shaking or lashing out and screaming by now. So that Hannibal chooses to play it safe here is hardly a surprise. Being suddenly thrown into a terrifying situation, being surrounded by people awash with fear, Hannibal is understandably concerned about Will's empathy flaring even now. So instead his focus is on Will, on calm, on slow, steady breathing. He hopes to overshadow any of Will's lingering empathic bleed with his own calm. It's not so much about breathing exercises as it about Will focusing on him, on drawing guidance from Hannibal's state of mind. Perhaps he's still awash in adrenaline over having taken over the scene, and perhaps he needs to calm himself in a sense, but Will - as always - is his priority. So when Will leans in over the console, Hannibal responds immediately.

He doesn't need to look; Hannibal merely lowers his shoulder and squeezes Will's hand tighter, his thumb pressed over the now-bloodied line of Will's ring finger. It's become a calming action even for him. Hannibal only hopes that Will feels calmed by it as well. He's quiet as Will's head comes to rest on his shoulder, and Hannibal can feel the chill from the night air through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. The loss of his suit jacket is mild; he's unconcerned. He'd not worn it before that evening. Perhaps leaving it behind hadn't been smart, but Hannibal's concern is still for Will above himself.

He's silent as he turns up the heat in the car and then lets Will calm himself with Hannibal's own breathing. It takes him some time, a long few minutes as Hannibal drives back along the highway, but eventually Will's voice sounds again. Hannibal listens, and while something heavy settles in his stomach at Abigail's mention, he delicately pushes past it in favor of listening to the rest. He knows the real issue when Will's grip on his hand suddenly tightens and Hannibal feels Will's body tense against his own. He simply strokes his thumb - rougher with drying blood - over the back of Will's hand, over each finger he can reach, a steadying, slow stroke.

"You have grown acclimated to the thought of taking a life. As much as a man like you ever can," Hannibal says. He considers French, but he doesn't want Will to struggle with comprehension. "Yet being awash in something so human is understandably overwhelming, Will. You were immersed in terror from many sources, not to mention the... similarities in your own past." Abigail. "That you feel shaken is not a surprise." For once, perhaps for Will's benefit, Hannibal can't scent the arousal on the air. The scent of blood and sweat and lingering fear is too strong to break through. Instead he merely tightens his grip on Will's hand, as close to comforting as he can manage in a less-than-comfortable car.

"Do you feel cold?" Hannibal's question is careful. He needs to know if Will is going into shock.

* * *

The road they're now on is familiar. It's the road _home_. Will doesn't need to be gazing out of the window to feel the familiarity. This is a road they've traveled often. Groceries. Supplies. Appointments. Journeying into the city. Tonight they had intended to do something unfamiliar for them. A date. A night out on the town, all dressed up, spick-and-span in new clothes. Will's attempt at making some grand gesture, at doing something _for_ Hannibal. _Bending_. Trying to make an effort. But tires screeching and cars colliding had their plans coming to a rather abrupt stop.

Hannibal could have driven around the accident.

But he hadn't.

Hannibal had known what _he_ would want and jumped into action. Playing doctor for others. _Being_ a doctor for others. Helping. Saving lives. (' _Je l'ai sauvée'_ echoes in Will's mind, words that are surely going to leave an imprint, another mark.)

Will's mind feels all over the place. Fragments of Abigail are still falling away from him as are the vestiges of fear and other heightened emotions from the woman and others at the scene. He hears Hannibal assure him... Practical words, calm tone, all familiar. Just like Hannibal stroking his fingers, the touch comforting. So many things are familiar about Hannibal now. His scent, the feel of his body, the sound of him on the stairs, how he folds clothing, how, when they shower together, he'll stand further away from the stream to ensure Will doesn't get chilly... And how he lets himself be pulled over, pulled into Will's embrace, the feel of naked wet skin pressed close. God, so much of Hannibal is known to him. He'd adjusted to Molly and Walter, to their routines and way of life and now both Hannibal and he have grown accustomed to each other. Puttering about, existing in each other's space, safe, comfortable...

"You think you’ve saved more lives than you’ve taken?" Will suddenly asks. He ignores the question about him being cold. He's pretty sure he's not going into shock. This topic seems more important to him.

* * *

Later, perhaps Will is going to crucify himself over the missed outing. Hannibal hardly cares. Will's attempt - that he had been willing to invite Hannibal in and make an effort _for_ him - far outweighs actually seeing the show. The opera is one that they can always purchase tickets to again at a later date, properly this time. Hannibal feels no irritation, no loss over what they don't have. It still would have been time spent with Will, and while ensuring that Will doesn't fall apart hadn't been what Hannibal had once had in mind for the evening, this is still time he's spending with Will. It's still Will's warmth leaning in against him, still Will's scent past the cloying scents of blood and fear. It's still Will's hand under his own, the familiar, faded scars against Will's knuckles from his altercation with Tier. Hannibal isn't left bemoaning the evening. There are plenty of things Hannibal takes pleasure in. The opera is only one of them.

His focus is split between Will and the road as he drives, the night air chilled outside of the vehicle, oncoming headlights zooming by just far enough not to obscure the vision of other drivers. As Hannibal drives, the buildings and residences become less and less compacted. It's a road they've driven down multiple times before, one he's grown accustomed to. His focus is only partially on it. The rest of it is on Will, on ensuring he's safe, on assessing any psychological damage from the scene. Hannibal's focus is sharp, so when Will suddenly asks a question of his own, it takes Hannibal a few clear seconds to catch up. Hopefully not in shock, then, but curious.

Hannibal doesn't need to think about the question. He already knows the answer. It had never occurred to him that Will might have some sort of opinion on the balance of that particular scale. Lives saved versus lives taken. Hannibal lifts his chin thoughtfully and his thumb continues its slow, rhythmic stroke over the back of Will's knuckles. Dried blood flakes away as he strokes, leaving the skin beneath familiar to his touch.

"I know I have. I was a surgeon, Will. When I was on-call, the majority of the surgeries I performed were emergencies. Ruptured appendixes, sudden myocardial events, clot retrievals, yes, but a fair number of severe injuries. Bullet and knife wounds, the occasional gang-related violence, slit throats and delicate work." Curious, in a way, that Will seems to put some sort of weight behind this knowledge. Hannibal glances down at him, sidelong.

"I worked as a surgeon for years. On a slow week, I typically saved two to five lives. Some, admittedly, multiple times. And that isn't counting the clients I saved after, in my psychiatry practice. Either by providing them the means and medication to help themselves, or by talking them down off the ledge. Sometimes literally. Does that surprise you?" Hannibal asks, sounding curious. “You knew of my work.”

* * *

He'd never really scoured the Chesapeake Ripper or il Mostro files. He'd never taken notice of the victim count -- of the _discovered_ victims, that is. Will knows there's more than that, but it's not important. Exact details don't matter. Will's not even sure that Hannibal would have a precise number to give him. Not every kill had been worthy of the time and effort put into creating any sort of tableau. After all, they hadn't done anything with the Dragon nor Henri. (Will had checked the news religiously to see if Hannibal had gone back and done something notable, but nothing had come of it. Will's not sure if he was disappointed by the lack of discovery...)

He listens to Hannibal's answer, the sounds of other cars and the engine fading. As usual, the world around them pales. (And Will is sure it's not a healthy way to be, for his world to be so dominated by a single man, but it's what he's carved out for himself -- they both have.) Logically, it makes sense. Hannibal world have saved more than he'd killed, but Will's never thought about it before. At the mention of Hannibal also "helping" in his psychiatric practice, Will's lips twitch in a bitter mimicry of a smile. Doctor Lecter, ever helpful and committed to his patients... But Will supposes not every patient would have been pushed and played with. Not like him and Margot, but one could argue that Hannibal _had_ actually helped them both...

"I knew, but the idea of the monster overshadowed the man," Will says slowly. Humans always aquicker to hone in on the bad than the alternative. Horror and tragedy leave lasting impressions, while the positive is easily forgotten. "At least before." Will nuzzles at Hannibal's shoulder, sighing. He still feels antsy, his skin crawling with the kind of low-thrum arousal that comes with a slick sense of dread... Will knows they're almost home, the last turn they took has them on the final stretch of road to their place.

"Stop the car," Will blurts out. "I need some air."

Although concerned, Hannibal does just that, pulling off to the side. Will straightens, undoing his seatbelt and scrambling out from the vehicle. He stomps over to the driver's side to wait for Hannibal to join him.

He wants... He needs... Hannibal? Yeah. The crisp air. The outside. The night is clear and the stars light up the inkiness. Will has blood on his hands, the knees of his slacks dirty...

* * *

Hannibal doesn't catch the bitter twist to Will's lips. He doesn't need to. He knows it's there regardless of whether or not he can see it. There are certain wounds that will take some time to heal, and Will's 'therapy' is one of them. They've avoided talking about it for the most part. In truth, there is a great deal that they haven't talked about yet, but like this, together, they have nothing but time. Hannibal's thumb continues its careful back-and-forth over Will's knuckles as Will nuzzles in a little closer, and the warmth offers comfort even to Hannibal. He listens, not at all surprised that Will's knowledge of him had once been limited to those he'd killed. That this is no longer the case is heartening. Perhaps there's much they need to work through, much they need to discuss, but the foundations are growing day by day. Hannibal allows himself to relax a little as Will settles against him. They're both still on edge, still tense, but the knowledge that Will just wishes to be closer to him is calming. He turns the corner onto the long stretch of road that leads up to their house, the trees thick, lush pines and newly-budding trees following winter.

Which is when Will suddenly blurts out what he does. Hannibal's relaxation fades into an immediate concern as he looks down at Will. He hadn't sensed him beginning to panic, but then, Will is quite adept at surprising him. They're only a few minutes from home and stopping on the road is ill-advised, but it's unlikely that anyone else will be traveling this road. Though he does consider protesting, in the end, Hannibal relents.

He pulls the car over to the side of the road, the tires sliding a little in the mix of mud and pine needles, and Will immediately sits up straighter. Hannibal turns off the car around the same time that Will scrambles out of the passenger's seat and he's left watching as Will makes his way around the car. Concerned, Hannibal undoes his own seat belt and pockets the keys before getting out of the car. Will is waiting for him directly outside his door, and while Hannibal _is_ concerned, he's also not blind. Now that he's looking, he can see the small twitches of Will's body, the shifting, the restlessness. He may not be panicking the way Hannibal knows he can, but he does need something.

The air is crisp but not cold. Will still has his jacket, even if Hannibal doesn't. So while the air is a little more biting to Hannibal, his attention is on Will as he carefully shuts the door of the car behind him. He's quiet for a moment, as if merely looking at Will could give him the answers he needs, but in the end, the safest route is merely open communication.

"What do you need me to do?" Hannibal asks quietly, reaching up with one hand to just brush the tips of his fingers (still bloodied, but dried) to Will's jaw. He does nothing more than touch, an open invitation for Will to do what he needs to. Hold or be held, lash out or request something in return, Hannibal isn't certain. His only consolation in this is that the night _is_ beautiful. His senses are awash in new growth and pine and blood, but despite the calming evening and the vibrant, starlit sky, Hannibal only has eyes for Will.

* * *

Will has no plan in this, no real goal. Fresh air. Standing. Moving. Nature... It's all better than being in the car with the dry heat blowing on him. Yeah. It's better out here. He's always had an affinity for the outdoors. Reminds him of simpler times. Of fishing. Of his dogs... Of his makeshift home with a prepackaged family that he's now left behind. But it's the road leading back to _their_ home. It's Hannibal's car. It’s Hannibal stepping out of the car and the clothes they're in that Hannibal's picked out and paid for. Same insides, wrapped up differently.

Hannibal looks achingly beautiful to him. Hair a little tousled, clothes a little bloody, a little dirty from the road, but Hannibal is _whole_ and not hurt. They both are. Bloody and uninjured. Not hurt. Will's not being pulled out from a hungry ocean following a botched exit plan--

(No getting out of jail for free, no passing Go, they're both in this together and Will plans on playing this game to the bitter end as long as Hannibal is with him.)

Will's hands move and Hannibal is there, within reach. Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be? Will's fingers curl against an expensive vest and he pulls Hannibal to him. Will effectively pins himself to the side of car, caging himself in with Hannibal’s body. Undoubtedly the position is provocative. There's no disguising the fact that his dick is a little hard, but Will wants - no, needs - Hannibal close, so he'll suck it up. Will knows Hannibal isn't going to goad him over the inappropriately-timed boner anyway. Hannibal is well versed at behaving in the midst of any of his distresses -- sexual or otherwise. Will has mountains of evidence proving just that.

Will tucks his head in against Hannibal's chest. By far this is the neediest or most submissive he's been with Hannibal in months. Will can't be bothered to care. His fingers grip the vest and he allows his thumbs to stroke down the material, a self-soothing motion.

"You intervened because you knew that's what I would want," Will begins, his voice tight and higher with stress. "Was so used to thinking of you as destructive... as dark. Hannibal Lecter didn't _save_ people. Hannibal meddled - chaotic and whimsical and above everyone else - and you fucked up so many people's lives, my own included, Abigail's life and--"

Will begins to shake with emotion, having a difficult time sorting everything out. His eyes are squeezed shut and as much as he wants to stop talking, he knows that's not an option he can take anymore. There's no more shutting down or running away.

"And I had accepted who you were - who I am - that I'm not good, and then you go and fucking change everything up." Will shakes Hannibal, a brief push that doesn’t get anywhere, but he then returns to clinging to him.

He hates being like this, being vulnerable, but the thought of being separated and stuck in his own head is far more frightening.

* * *

In a way, it's fitting that they're stood on the side of the road, delicately caged in by trees and pavement and stars. The faint music on the car radio had been soothing, as had the hum of the engine and the sound of the tires crawling over asphalt, but it's the absence of sound now that suddenly strikes Hannibal. There's nothing but the faintest rustling of wind and the echo of distant traffic, a pocket of reality too far away to encroach upon theirs. It's a safe place carved out to fit Will Graham like the suit still clinging to his body, a place that feels almost out of time. Between civilization and home. There's a metaphor there if Hannibal cares to look, but metaphor and symbolism and artistry don't hold a candle to the look on Will's face. His drawn brow is like a wrinkle in a landscape, the stress etched into his shoulders a veritable earthquake to Hannibal's senses. He's quiet, anticipatory, expecting Will to fall apart, so when Will reaches out to him, Hannibal expects the worst. (Yet he doesn't draw back; why would he?)

Instead of lashing out or shutting down, Will pulls him closer. Hannibal's hand instinctively reaches out to brace itself upon the edge of the car's roof as he stumbles closer, though he stops himself just as he feels Will's body pressed along his own. In a heartbeat, Hannibal understands. He can read the desperation in Will's posture, the desire for something other than mere sex (though he's suddenly aware of the hardness against his own thigh, but Will looks too pinched for that to currently be a driving force). Hannibal allows himself seconds to be surprised before the rigidity in his posture eases. He feels Will shift, feels him ease down, and glances down in the dark to watch Will tuck himself in against Hannibal's chest. Will's hands are still clenched in his vest and Hannibal doesn't miss the way Will strokes at it - seeking tactile sensation. He suddenly finds himself feeling proud. Hannibal is aware of the control it takes for Will to stay, to _not_ run away, despite feeling so distressed.

So he gives Will the time he needs to gather his thoughts, and then the respect he's owed as Will begins to speak. Will sounds like he's on the edge of something, his voice tight. Perhaps in Will's mind, he's only giving Hannibal information, yet Hannibal hears Will's words like a plea. He's quiet as he listens; Will isn't incorrect in any of his assumptions, rough as they may be to hear. He leans in just enough to press his lips to the crown of Will's hair and, though he moves slowly, Hannibal presses Will back against the car, carefully caging him in with his arms and his legs, exerting pressure like a weighted blanket. He can feel Will shaking, feels his push, hears the effort in his voice. Hannibal closes his own eyes, and as the stars eclipse into blackness behind his eyes, Will becomes his entire focus.

"Human beings are multifaceted and complex," he says softly. "It is comforting to assign labels, to define, to simplify, and yet summarizing a life into a few short words only makes it that more jarring when the mold breaks."

There's dried blood on Hannibal's hand. It doesn't stop him as he slides his fingers into Will's hair, curling just enough so Will can feel. It's a risk to be so bold, but Will is clinging to him, small, desperate. This is a risk Hannibal is willing to take.

"You say I changed everything, but was the fault mine, or was the honor yours? I might not have stopped years ago, Will, but you would have." That Hannibal had done so without thinking likely says a lot, even if Will can't yet see that. "I... cannot reverse the damage I've done. I wouldn't begin to try. Both because you deserve your bitterness, and because I regret it only insofar as it hurt you, not that it led us here, together. Yet I wonder... you admit you so readily cast your label upon me, but have you not done the same to yourself? Tell me, Will..."

Hannibal's grip tightens just for a moment, a grounding curl of his fingers as he leans down to whisper close to Will's ear. "Who says that you are _not_ a good man?”

* * *

Will doesn't like public displays of affection, but this isn't really public. There isn't much of a chance that they'll be caught, and two men embracing by their own vehicle is hardly scandalous compared to what they _should_ be caught for. (Will knows they've been here too long, that it's time to move, it's time to uproot and yet he finds himself a little resistant to the idea.) So, he clings onto Hannibal and Hannibal presses against him. It's not with any intent, no other desire other than to comfort him. Will knows Hannibal wants him well, that Hannibal is safekeeping his head, his heart, his body. And it isn't even that scary. Not anymore.

What's terrifying is _living_ with it. It's knowing that fate and circumstance have brought them together. Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no river wide enough and all that... He has what he wants, he has what he needs, and the only guaranteed thing is that it can be taken away, that nothing lasts in this world. It can be lost. Squandered. Ripped away. Will's never pictured himself growing old with someone. He's never thought of himself as being the type to be madly in love, to have some soulmate, but the boxes next to Hannibal's name are checked, and if the shoe fits... God, he doesn't want this to end, not after he's just found it.

Hannibal is right and even though Will knows it's the truth, he doesn't feel aggravated over the fact that he knows this truth already. Of course humans are complex, of course humans attempt to label and simplify, to better categorize and understand anything that's not them. Hannibal's hand comes to pull on his hair and the sensation is nice. Will recognizes it as grounding.

He knows he's the wrench that's been thrown into the mix for this incident, that Hannibal had had years without him and they hadn't all been destructive. When the grip briefly intensifies, Will jerks a little, his erection rubbing against Hannibal's thigh and he groans at the contact, but doesn't repeat the motion. Feels wrong. His stomach clenches in protest.

Then comes Hannibal's question and Will frowns. Where does he even start with listing of why he's not good?

"Shacking up with a serial killer? Abandoning them - yes, I know they're better off without me - the-the Henri thing - the fact that I _do_ get aroused at the thought of taking lives and, believe me, I remember in the fucking entryway I told you otherwise, that I _wasn't_ a sexual sadist. And then this fucking poorly timed hard-on I have right now, feels just like the times I'd wake up after a grisly nightmare and my body had betrayed me."

Will takes a quick breath in before continuing, "I was helping _before_ , even if it was somewhat a farce, I _was_ helping with Jack and then you... And then you... And I'm fucking afraid of losing you now and I know us killing again puts us in danger but I can't help but want to walk that line, like an awful itch and I know you'll scratch it, Hannibal."

* * *

There's a comforting familiarity in the way Will's body tenses under his hands. It's faint, nothing more than a little jerk of Will's hips that grinds his arousal in against Hannibal's thigh. The sensation is familiar, the groan welcome, but even as an answering twist settles in Hannibal's stomach, he knows something is wrong. He can't put a finger on it at first. It's a foreboding feeling that seems masked by the moment, by the press of Will's body against his own. Before Hannibal can devote his full attention to the issue, Will goes still against him, and suddenly Hannibal's attention is caught by far more than Will's behavior. It's caught by Will's words, and from the first word that escapes Will's mouth, Hannibal knows that _this_ is the true issue.

He's quiet as he listens to Will list his reasons, and with each new utterance, he feels something twist low inside. It's not a pleasant sensation. It feels old and bitter and curled, but the subsequent ferocity isn't aimed at Will. No, if anything, Hannibal feels _protective_ over this man, metaphorical fangs bared at the demons Will has in his mind instead of at Will himself. Hannibal frowns and around them, the world narrows down to just two points already merging. Their own covalent bond. His fingers in Will's hair remain tight and he soaks up the warmth from Will's body while offering Will the heat from his own. Will's guilt is clear. Choosing Hannibal over his family is a non-issue, though Henri's mention twists something sharply in Hannibal's chest. Yet when Will continues, when he suddenly speaks of arousal - of a more sadistic edge to his sexuality, the sound from before makes perfect sense. The unknown variable is suddenly crystal clear and Hannibal's grip in Will's hair gentles, as if attempting to soothe.

It strikes him, then, that there is much that they have yet to talk about. For all their advances, for the more equivalent footing between them, there are still oceans left unexplored. A weight settles in Hannibal's chest as he considers this man and the demons poised all around him. It's almost ironic that through all of this, all of what they'd done to one another and all they've become, Hannibal had let one thing slide: therapy. That, he decides, is on him.

There's much to address. It's difficult to not immediately jump on the final topic first, for knowing that Will fears losing _him_ seems much sweeter than anything else, as does the sudden jarring knowledge that Will's desire to kill is not simply abstract. It's a lascivious thrill that crawls hot and heady up Hannibal's spine, but Hannibal breathes slow, steady, focusing himself. In his mind, he orders his response, grouping topics together to best address this as it deserves. As _Will_ deserves.

"I will. If that is an itch you have, then we will scratch it _together_. But ... I feel there are other topics that require my attention first. I will come back to that," Hannibal promises, and there's a low heat in his voice, a curl of something old and eldritch and dark that he makes no attempt to mask. Yet despite that, he goes on, breathing slow to let Will focus on it. "Guilt has always been a veil over your eyes, Will, obscuring your reality. It is... simple, almost comforting to fall back on old habits, and in a sense, the blame is mine. In trying to avoid putting you through undue stress, the toxins of old beliefs have apparently been poisoning you behind your veil. I don't blame you for Henri," Hannibal says, and his voice is sudden and firm. Even his hold in Will's hair tightens again, to lock the point home. "You were reacting to a need I wasn't filling, and our communication was lax. You went about it in an unpleasant manner, but you've grown from the mistake and I trust that you will not do it again. The sting lingers, but I forgive you. Take that out of your equation."

Hannibal shifts then, just a little. He moves his fingers down to curl behind Will's nape and rests his chin atop Will's head, both caging and comforting at the same time. Like this, his voice will be louder, and Will can feel the vibrations of his words like a resonating echo.

"As for your family..." Hannibal even manages to not sound bitter. He is, but Will doesn't need that now. "Follow it to the end. Perhaps you would have been content to live as a shade, but that would have been short-lived. Was taking control of your own need, your own desire the sin, or was playing a part you didn't feel? You know authenticity better than anyone, Will. Perhaps there is comfort in a mask for some time, but after awhile the paint chips and the edges wear thin. You decided to be authentic to yourself, and they've been given a chance to find something else. Being selfish isn't a sin, Will. It doesn't make you a bad man. Nor does your current physical state." Hannibal doesn't move, doesn't draw attention to Will's arousal, as this is something he wants to address properly.

* * *

Will knows he's effectively vomited up a wide array of sentiment for Hannibal to wade through. Haven't they been trying to be more honest? To be open with each other? And yet it feels like Will's bottled more than a few different problems up. How is it that they live together, talk often, but sometimes don't _say anything_? Communicating but lacking a certain depth of content. They're definitely closer, definitely committed, but Will knows Hannibal keeps parts of himself tightly locked up. Will's guilty of the same thing. And it probably doesn't help that when he _does_ share, it's during times of heightened emotions so Hannibal must tread carefully, not knowing if Will is serious or being reckless. It doesn't fucking look good when he blurts out things, even if they're the truth.

Hannibal is close now, his body pressing into him, a hand in his hair. It's so fucking familiar that Will just wants to lose himself in Hannibal, to give up this charade of trying to talk and be understood, to swap this meeting of their minds with their bodies instead. Will knows Hannibal could silence his demons. Will's in a much more receptive state of mind for Hannibal to do _whatever_ to him. He wants Hannibal's touch to overwhelm him, to quiet his mind -- a proverbial gag for his own inner voice. (He's had a glove stuffed in his mouth before and most recently he's had Hannibal's hand covering his mouth...) But now isn't the time for such things.

If anything, it's going to be the morning after Henri... Talking and touching, therapy laced with stimulation and distraction. Will knows even if he begged Hannibal to drop the conversation that it wouldn't be laid to rest so easily. So, Will has to wait for Hannibal's reply.

He doesn't really need to wait that long. Thankfully. But goddamn Hannibal's words, his tone, like a promise and threat - _together_ \- they can take a life _together..._ Will's dick fills out more, tailored pants now feeling more uncomfortably tight, arousal climbing at the thought of hunting with Hannibal, but then the rest of Hannibal's words process. 'Other topics' require Hannibal's attention and Will knows he's going to have to pay attention and listen.

Will doesn't want therapy. He wants to purge. To spit out all the nasty thoughts and words and feelings and be done with it, but that's not how communication -- or rather relationships work. A fucking _relationship_. Yeah, that's what they're in. Hannibal loves him. He's chosen Hannibal, so he will endure this. Endure Hannibal trying to untangle his thoughts. Will doesn't like hearing that Hannibal blames himself for avoiding certain topics. He's an adult and these are _his_ problems, isn't it up to _him_ to bring them up? ...But maybe that's not necessarily true. Maybe his problems are Hannibal's as well. A shared burden. Hannibal talking about Henri - about forgiveness - it's a difficult pill to swallow, but if Hannibal is over it, shouldn't he let go of it as well?

And then Hannibal shifts, resting his chin on Will's head, his hand on the back of his neck. Will can feel Hannibal talk. And yeah, he knows Hannibal is right. He knows Molly and Walter are better off without him. Hope had been a deceptive mask, but Will had been running then. He'd ran right into Molly and Walter and had been all too eager to fit in the best he could and carve out a new life for himself. It hadn't been authentic, no, but it'd felt _good_. Like the right medicine, a balm for his aches, but Hannibal is his drug of choice and addictions aren't scrapped so easily. Will's grip eases a little on Hannibal's vest. He tries to let the words sink in. But hasn't it been years of damning himself, judging himself? Not that it ever helped. He'd still played. He'd still meddled...

"We're taught that being selfish is a wrong, that it's a sin to take a life, it's a perversion to find delight in hurting others. I'm used to punishing myself. I don't know if I'll ever stop. I'm not you. I can't rise above it all."

It's with desperation that he rocks into Hannibal's thigh, seeking sensation. "But I-I think you'll keep my head above the water."

* * *

How low has Will been brought, to crave this? How many cues has Hannibal missed over the past few weeks to not notice that Will has been suffering like this? It's simple to blame himself, but there still is a small bolt of irritation within that Will hadn't brought this up. Hypocrisy is rife in their relationship, but is it any wonder? Years of moves and counter-moves, of Even Stevens and underhanded tactics... open honesty will be difficult to foster between them without practice, but Hannibal wishes the freedom. Right now perhaps it's merely a dream, but the thought of Will one day coming to him and openly speaking with him about his problems, of trusting him enough to tell the truth before his demons overwhelm him is a sweet comfort. Perhaps it isn't their reality, but one day it could be. Hannibal's ire fades when he reminds himself that he has hardly been as forthcoming as he should have been the last few months. They both have much to work on together, so these interludes are welcome. It doesn't make Will's pain any easier to bear, but in time perhaps there will be less of it between them.

Until then, Hannibal feels the way Will suddenly rocks against him. Maybe he's sickened by his desire, by his body's betrayal, but the urge for a physical connection - a distraction - will likely always be hardwired into Will's mind. Is it a good idea to allow this? Perhaps not, but just as Will has been hiding certain parts of his mind, so too has Hannibal been keeping his own desires in check. So while he does consider the intelligence of it, eventually he decides to allow Will this, if just for a distraction. Hannibal's free hand moves down from the roof of the car and eases down Will's side, trailing low and firm until he has Will's hip in a firm grip. Then he eases Will a little closer, moving Will's hips under his hand. Hannibal controls the movement, guides Will's hips into a slow roll, as in a way, this suits his point.

"I will. If that is all I can ever do for you, I will succeed in keeping your head above water, Will. And, if it is in my power, if you allow me, I will do what I can to help you. Even when you condemn yourself, you will forever be absolved in my eyes."

Hannibal is fairly certain that barring certain mortal sins, Will could never truly wrench himself away from redemption. It is with that in mind - as Hannibal guides Will in closer, the contact almost crushing but his thigh flexing slow and unhurried between Will's legs - that Hannibal draws a slow breath, refocuses his verbal aim, and goes on.

"Has it occurred to you that your shame is a direct result of the fact that you condemn yourself, Will? You told me you weren't a sexual sadist. Now you say you are. Yet I must wonder... when you saw the woman bleeding out on the ground, when you saw her sobbing, did you take pleasure in that? In her fear?" Hannibal honestly doubts it, and his fingers curl slow through the curls at Will's nape. "As seems to be a recurring problem, you have polarized yourself. You can _only_ be good, or _only_ be your definition of bad. Shades of grey exist through your veil, even if the veil obscures them. I think you find pleasure - feel arousal - at the thought of the power you'd hold. The power _we'd_ hold." Hannibal stops then, holding Will steady. He breathes deep, and keeps Will's hips from moving because he _knows_ better than to continue at this second. "Do you find your arousal at the thought of cutting open a wailing child, Will?" Hannibal shakes his head and holds Will tighter, as if to protect him from the lingering sting of his words.

Hannibal can feel Will's tension, the displeasure, and he knows to rush on, to not let him linger on the thought. "I feel you've forgotten _why_ you chose Henri. I once told a patient of mine that doing bad things to bad people makes us feel good. I think that is the dilemma you face, yet you don't have to. You feel you no longer do good, you shy away from your own desires, and yet under your skin you feel the itch to kill, like a parasite needing to break free. There is a simple solution."

Drawing back just enough to look down at Will, Hannibal pushes him back against the car and this time, _he_ is the one to roll his hips, slow, unhurried, but he cups Will's jaw, urging him to look up and look _at_ him instead of hiding away.

"Find those who would hurt innocents. Do the work you did before. _Find_ them, and _kill_ them, with me. Find those who prey on those you fought to protect before, and prove why _you_ are superior. Why we are superior together. Bask in that power, Will. That exhilaration. With me."

* * *

It's not his intention to be needy, to be clinging and bemoaning his woes to Hannibal. Spilling his internal distress like a confession. Wills doesn't like this. He doesn't like _being_ like this. He doesn't like blindsiding Hannibal either, proving that he's kept things in. But these thoughts he's bringing up... They're not exactly new. They've been voiced here and there. One problem is that things are mentioned in passing, but not discussed. Will's not a fan of sit-down discussions... Grab a cup of coffee, talk about his feelings on murder and morality. Yeah right. Probably would go as well as his attempt at Hannibal kneeling in the kitchen.

He doesn't know how Hannibal will take this. If he's going to be disappointed that he hasn't mentioned all of this sooner or relieved that he isn't completely falling apart? Is Hannibal going to be irritated that he's going for a distraction with the grinding (hey, he's still been talking) or is he going to allow it? He feels Hannibal's other hand slide down his side, coming to grasp his hip. Will thinks it might be to hold him still - to deny him - but it turns out that it isn't. Instead, Hannibal pulls him a little closer and _controls_ the motion.

Will doesn't fight nor try to move on his own. He gives in. Hannibal has him.

' _Even when you condemn yourself, you will forever be absolved in my eyes.'_

They don't hurt each other with blades anymore, with threats of violence... It's now words. It's tenderness. It's truth and _knowing_ and _feeling_ all of it -- a mix of something exquisitely intimate and intense that radiates within him. It's an anguish that Will is hardly prepared for. He can take getting stabbed or shot. He can comprehend that pain, but _this_? Unconditional love? Will's brows pinch and the thigh that moves against him isn't frantic, but _right_. A consistent pressure, enough attention to take the edge off.

Until Hannibal speaks again and mentions sexual sadism and the woman at the accident... He thinks back to her, the fear and panic. He hadn't been thrilled by it. He hadn't been pleased by it. Will understands the _concept_ of shades of grey, it's just apparently difficult to apply to himself. He wants to fight in Hannibal's hold, to argue -- but Will knows Hannibal is right. His grip on Hannibal's vest tightens when the idea of finding pleasure at hurting a child is mentioned. A wave of revulsion washes over him, but Hannibal holds him tight.

Thankfully Hannibal continues and Will shakes off the image of hurting children. (He's not that kind of monster.) The reminder of Hannibal's words from years ago - that doing bad things up bad people makes us feel good - has Will's lips twitching in acknowledgement. And then Hannibal is pulling away, pushing his hips into Will's arousal and forcing his head up. No more hiding.

' _With me_...' echoes in Will's mind. He knows Hannibal had never been interested in killing to do good, in vigilante justice or the like, but Hannibal _would_ for him.

"You _would._ " It's an accusation, but Will sounds more surprised than upset by it. "God, you would. For me. With me." Will shakes and he blinks rapidly for a moment, trying to process the feelings and thoughts racing through him. (He thinks it's a lost cause.)

"You're infecting me. You're getting closer and closer," Will's voice is soft, his eyes wide. Hannibal is so fucking open to him that it almost pisses him off. "How much more, Hannibal? How much deeper you going to burrow in? Going to make sure I'm ruined for anyone else, right?"

They both know there won't be anyone else.

Will's breathing rougher now. His cock aches. His insides feel picked at, his heart held together by hands that mend and destroy.

* * *

Hannibal has no desire to punish those who do wrong. Unless the actions of others directly influence him, he cares little. Had Margot's claim on Mason not been so strong, Hannibal would have killed him in a heartbeat for being so rude, but it had taken all his control not to slaughter the man following Will's injuries. Even so, Hannibal is a man of his word. Mason had fit his mold because Mason had been directly in his line of sight, but others... perhaps Hannibal has killed a few, curiosity getting the better of him, but he holds no direct revulsion for them unless they're _rude_. But Will Graham is not him, and Will Graham will never see as Hannibal does. Again, shades of grey. While Will's mind needs guilt to fuel his fire, Hannibal needs only a whim, a blip on his own radar. He doesn't want to be a vigilante. Common, tasteless, _crude_ , but perhaps with Will, that's not how it will be. Yet when it comes down to it, Hannibal's choice is simple. Will he kill those who 'deserve' to die if he gets Will by his side? Yes.

Will's 'accusation' is mild, almost meek, and Hannibal reads his body well. He notes the way Will's breathing has quickened, how insistent the press of his erection against Hannibal's thigh is, and yet he also notes how lax Will is in his arms, as if content to be held, to be directed. Hannibal feels an answering thrill shoot through him and he wonders suddenly if Will has ever truly allowed this. He'd allowed Hannibal control when he'd asked Hannibal to use his fingers. He'd allowed him control the night of Will's botched murder with Henri, but that had been dominance and very little else. But like this, Hannibal finds himself thrilled not only in the subject matter but in Will's allowances. That Will allows Hannibal to urge him closer, to guide his hips, that he even seems receptive to the roll of Hannibal's is a thrill, and yet Hannibal is careful not to squander it. He knows Will enough to know how quickly he can go from complacency to bloodshed. Yet lately Will's hair-trigger has been tempered. Hannibal has hope.

"This is less an infection and more... a transfusion," Hannibal says lowly, and his bloodied thumb brushes over Will's cheek, leaving flakes of dried blood in his stubble that they'll need to clean once they finally get home. " _Jack_ was an infection. A slow-acting poison. When you came to me, you were burdened by guilt and self-loathing, a belief that your only purpose - your only use - was to stop those who would harm the innocent. You ignored symptoms and pushed yourself close to death for the propaganda Jack pushed into your mind. I'm uncertain about you, but to me, _that_ sounds like the infection. A slow poison that draws the victim close to death."

Hannibal leans in, just enough to press a kiss to Will's forehead. It's quick, glancing, almost out of place considering the subject matter, but this is a point that Hannibal intends to make.

"And yet these last few months I have fought against this ingrained belief of yours. The poison has begun to bleed out, yet the infection remains. You know what you want, what you _need_ , and yet old beliefs are still poisoning your thoughts, your worth."

Hannibal strokes his hand down Will's throat, gentle, and then he carefully fits his hand around the column of it. He doesn't squeeze, he merely presses, feeling Will's heartbeat, transferring his own warmth to Will's skin as he drags Will's hips in against his own.

"What I'm offering you is a cleanse. A transfusion. Hemodialysis of your beliefs. Everything that I am is already in your hands. Let me in. Let me attempt to reverse what has been done. Let me attempt to negate Jack's infection and show you that you are a _good_ man, Will. Tell me, what feels like the mask to you? Your manic desire to prove yourself useful for Jack, or the satisfaction you felt knowing that The Dragon would never again hurt another living soul?"

* * *

He'd been marked before a blade ever saw to leave him a such a memento. It'd happened gradually, graphite gently etching into him, lines and shading changing his design, or rather, bringing emphasis to certain angles and facets. Will hadn't been receptive or even aware of Hannibal's initial interest in him. Will had been caught up in his own struggles of finding the Minnesota Shrike and then working to stop whatever new case that had popped up. He'd never have imagined that he would capture Hannibal's eye. The claim that he hadn't found Hannibal interesting... Well, it’s amusing now, but it had been true back then. Of course Hannibal had proved him wrong. Boy, had he ever. Shrink by day, killer by night. Fancy dinner parties, feeding people people. Playing, making friends with Jack, keeping Gideon, hiding away Abigail, romancing Alana, the entanglement with the Vergers. The list went on and on. Hannibal had surely been a busy bee and Will had gotten more tangled than he could have ever realized.

Will knows now. They both have their claws deep in the flesh of each other and they're not letting go. He's not alone in feeling ripped open and exposed and changed. Will can't even delude himself or pretend otherwise. He's seen Hannibal get to his knees and give up his freedom simply so Will could know where he could be found. He'd experienced first hand Hannibal's jealousy and possessiveness when he'd pointed the Dragon at Molly and Walter. Hannibal could have let him die when Dolarhyde had attacked him. Even after Will's attempt to end the both of them, Hannibal had pulled them from the ocean and forced him to carry on and _live_. (Living is harder, living will always be harder.)

It's not easy to hear Hannibal denounce Jack Crawford, but he can't deny that Jack hadn't been especially _good_ for him. Even now Will wants to defend Jack, to let his actions slide because Jack was doing _good_ and getting justice and who cared about the _cost_ of one man's sanity? Will doesn't. He lets Hannibal kiss his forehead - tender and nonsexual - and even now it's difficult to allow. But he does. Will allows Hannibal to continue.

' _You know what you want, what you need, and yet old beliefs are still poisoning your thoughts, your worth._

Will frowns. Hannibal's hand glides down his throat. No violence, no choking. It used to be needed, almost a damn prerequisite, but not so much now. Should it be this hard to accept love and care? Maybe not, but it always has been the case. Faster, harder, rougher. (But maybe it's getting easier too.)

_'Everything that I am is already in your hands. Let me in.'_

Hasn't he already? Hadn't Hannibal found the key? But maybe his heart has more doors, more rooms for Hannibal to get into and Hannibal won't be satisfied until all of him is invaded and known. (Isn't it the same for Will?)

He doesn't answer Hannibal's question. They both know the answer. He'd felt alive and righteous slaying a Dragon, on ending a man like Francis Dolarhyde.

"I can still be... good?" Will asks, voice meeker than he'd like, but he doesn't care to try and roughen it. "You'll still have me?"

(You'll still love me? Is what Will is really asking.)

* * *

It's a risk. As many things with Will turn out to be, Hannibal suddenly playing this particular hand is a bigger risk than most. There is the slimmest of chances that he could be wrong about Will, but it's _so_ slim that Hannibal doesn't entertain the thought. He's known this man for so long, known his whims and desires, shone light on the darkest obsidian hiding in the corners of his mind. He knows Will Graham as much as Will has allowed himself to be known, be it intentional or otherwise. Hannibal's claims - his boldness, this risk - is calculated but also firm. He knows. And while Will seems resistant to the idea, his protests silent but still mulling in the back of his mind like a cancer, Hannibal knows that Will is finally listening.

The friction - a slow, careful grind of mutual arousal - is secondary to this. For perhaps the first time, the physical is second to the verbal, the emotional. Hannibal basks in the allowance and he's careful despite the slow rock of his hips. He's aroused, his slacks tight. The thought of killing with Will is thrilling, but not because he finds arousal at the thought of people dying. Seeing Will in his majesty once more, _hunting_ with him like they had for those short minutes atop the bluff that had fractured them both to knit together anew in the Atlantic, _that_ is what makes him ache. And yet despite his desire, it's secondary to Will's vulnerability. It's a safety net so Will doesn't feel trapped by the conversation. Perhaps it is a pressing matter, but the secrets shared and the words unveiled are far more important than their shared arousal.

So when Will speaks after a long, pregnant pause, Hannibal's focus is entirely on him. He feels the vibrations against his hand, feels the way Will's Adam's apple twitches as he speaks, and Hannibal's thumb presses against the thrumming pulse in Will's throat. He shudders, soft, taken by the physicality of it despite his desires, and yet it's Will's soft question that truly breaks the walls down. Hannibal feels something twist sharply in his chest and he wishes suddenly that they had had this conversation sooner. That Will is even asking the question is proof that it's something he'd needed to hear months ago, if not years.

Hannibal draws back just enough to look down at him, at the picture he makes under the dim light of the moon, his hands as caked in blood as Hannibal's, his eyes wide and dark and hair wild from the stress earlier. Then Hannibal slides the hand on Will's throat up just enough to nudge his chin up. His thumb presses against the steady pulse in Will's throat, comforting, and Hannibal bends down. His lips only barely brush against Will's, fleeting, more a breath than a kiss, but it's a physical answer that Will's concerns can't steal from him.

"You can still be good. And I will gladly have you, Will. I am not an unreasonable man, and if the thought of channeling your desires only into those who you feel deserve it is what gives you comfort, that is what we will do. If they fit my usual mark as well, that will be a bonus." Hannibal lets that sink in for only a moment before he leans back in and kisses Will again, a slower slide of lips, fuller than the last. "In a way, is that not _more_ than you ever did for Jack? Not only will you be killing those who don't deserve to live, you will _also_ be redirecting my gaze upon them."

Hannibal doesn't explain because he doesn't have to. He knows how many lives he's ended. He knows how many 'innocents' (rude swine) he's slaughtered. Likewise, he knows how many lives Will is likely going to save simply by offering Hannibal a different target, slaking his hunger with a different diet.

* * *

There's an answering hardness to his own. Hannibal is also aroused. It's a bit of a relief to be in the same boat, but it's not exactly important. In this moment, under the stars, against the car, so close to home but not quite there, shared arousal is simply appreciated. Getting off, having things escalate? Nice, but not needed. Hannibal still generally waits for him to initiate things, ever the gentleman or perhaps Hannibal is worried that he's going to spook and regress. Will can still remember that apprehension about Hannibal being a man, uncertainty about touching a dick that wasn't his own. With patience and time, Hannibal has won him over, eclipsed most issues of sexuality and orientation. It doesn't matter, is the thing. Hannibal's gender doesn't matter. Will can't even think of Hannibal as anything but himself. Everything about him physically appeals now. Greying chest hair, angular hips, a lack of curves and feminine roundness.

Everything has been tainted by love.

He almost wants to sad-laugh that he'd fought it so damn hard, that he'd tried to push Hannibal away, to test him, to give a little and then withdraw, to claim Hannibal would never have his heart. A part of Will regrets the wasted time, the nights spent apart, but without them he wouldn't be here. Will understands that much. There's no point in apologizing about it.

He remembers Hannibal promising that he wouldn't try and manipulate or shape him ever again, but that didn't necessarily mean him being _good_ is something Hannibal wanted. Maybe it's what Hannibal would tolerate?

Will's a little afraid when Hannibal takes him in, when eyes search his face. Does Hannibal see him as weak? As a liar? As only being honest because he's been shaken up? Will lets Hannibal nudge his chin up. The brush of lips against his burns. It hurts. It's acceptance that Will feels in his bones. Will _knows_ it. And then the words come and Will has to swallow past emotion that's threatening to arise. Hannibal is taking him seriously, taking him as he truly is, and a compromise is being given to him. It's not that Will had expected Hannibal to _not_ compromise, to not be willing, but an acknowledgement is another thing entirely. It's giving validity to his feelings.

His mouth is pliant under Hannibal's own. Will doesn't try and deepen the kiss or take control of it. He can't help but wonder why he used to be so resistant to trust and give up control to Hannibal, or even to allow care and tenderness. Maybe because it's a newer playing field for them. Their history doesn't reflect kindly in matters of trust, but perhaps their most recent history is what he needs to let wash over him.

They'll hunt together. They'll kill those who deserve it. Hannibal loves him. All of him. He can be _good..._

"Je veux... que tu me fasses l'amour," Will whispers. His eyes clear, his intent obvious. _(I want... you to make love to me.)_

"I want you to take me to our home. I want you to undress me. I want you to go as fast or slow as you please. I want you to do everything you've held yourself back from doing, Hannibal."

* * *

As Hannibal stands there, caging Will in comfortably against the side of the car, whispering thrilling promises for closeness and channeled violence, he can't help but remember Will's frustrations before. Will had insisted he was collared, neutered, had expressed a restlessness at 'playing house' and had taken it to mean everything it hadn't. Hannibal wants. He wants to kill, to feel the power in his hands once more, but he is also not a sloppy man. He'd not killed for three years, and the risk of losing himself to a spree had been present. So while Will's chosen victims may not fit Hannibal's profile in theory, it's not something Hannibal intends to fight against. Will's profile of victims will temper his own desires, stay his hand. Moderation and skill instead of impulsiveness and quick selection. Hannibal can't claim that he won't be drawn to those _he_ feels deserves to die, but Will's criteria feel more like a foundation than a cage.

Hannibal particularly enjoys what the knowledge does to Will. While he initially seems stunned, it takes him almost no time at all to recover, and Hannibal can _feel_ the gratitude through the press of their lips. He tastes Will's thanks and takes his time with it, shielding this man against the mild chill in the air and protecting him from his own internal demons. Hannibal is the most dangerous creature for miles - both corporeal and in Will's hallucinations - and Will is protected. Perhaps he knows that, or perhaps this conversation had been desperately needed. Hannibal doesn't know. What he does know that is when the kiss breaks and Will answers him, Hannibal almost misses the words. Or, perhaps more accurately, he can't believe them.

The French makes Hannibal go still, and when he draws back to look down at Will, there's clear surprise in his eyes. He stills, thrown, and Will takes advantage of his shock to go on, softly detailing to Hannibal what he wants him to do. The knowledge has Hannibal drawing up short, stunned but thoughtful as he looks down at Will. There's only an inch's height between them but the way Will is looking at him, it makes him seem almost reverent. Heat of a different sort curls suddenly and viciously through Hannibal's chest and when he slides his hand back up to Will's cheek, all he can do is look at him, hardly daring to believe.

"...Are you certain?" Hannibal asks, and there's no hesitation in the way Will nods, his cheek rubbing slow against Hannibal's palm.

He feels dazed as he directs them back into the car, slowly, though not before he steals a slow, lingering kiss. Hannibal locks away the feeling of Will's lips under his own, the slow press, the almost-tentative taste, and it strikes him as he walks around to open Will's door for him that Will is absolutely serious. Ultimately, after they're both in the car and buckled up, Hannibal finds that he's mostly stunned over the word choice. Not 'fuck me', not 'have sex with me'. _Make love to me_. Hannibal's caught in that soft whisper, in the lingering clarity of Will's eyes, and it takes them less than a minute to complete the journey home.

Hannibal helps Will into the house after locking the car, and after a quiet instruction for Will to leave his shoes and suit jacket by the door and meet him upstairs, Hannibal pauses only to look at him, to drink his fill, before he turns and makes his way upstairs. He takes a washcloth from the bathroom and uses it to quickly wash his own hands, cleaning them completely of blood. It takes him only moments to undo his vest and mind his shirt, slipping out of both and setting them aside to clean later. He considers leaving his slacks for at least a farce of modesty but ultimately he decides he doesn't want to go to Will with another's blood on him. A shower would be a boon but they'd both washed before leaving that evening. Hannibal simply strips out of everything but his underwear and then carefully finds another wash cloth, wetting it with warm water. He takes it out to Will.

"Your hands," Hannibal says quietly, and reaches out with the cloth to gently take one of Will's hands in his own. He strokes the cloth over Will's bloodied palms, cleaning away the trace of another while Hannibal looks at him, still feeling dazed. "Do you trust me, Will?"

* * *

_'Are you certain?'_

Will's not surprised by Hannibal checking, by Hannibal possibly giving him an out or a chance to clarify. It's not even irritating. Not now. He gives a quick, confident nod in response. Christ, he used to get so aggravated by Hannibal seeking assurance, by Hannibal showing him care and concern. Wasted emotion, but back then Will had been wound up tight and lashed out whenever he could. Not anymore. Not now. Hannibal deserves this and Will wants to give this to him.

Will wants this too.

He knows Hannibal _would_ stop killing for him. Hannibal already has. But he also knows Hannibal would prefer not to. Will knows Hannibal will abide by his criteria. He knows Hannibal is both experienced and smart enough for them to avoid being caught too. He knows he can do good and through him - next to him - Hannibal will do some good too. Maybe a part of Hannibal is bitter about the idea of being pointed - directed - about the whimsy being taken out of it, but love demands compromise and if these two beasts are to play and tear flesh, they will have to get along.

They kiss and Will remains resolute in this course of action. He lets himself be lead back to the passenger side, Hannibal opens the door for him and Will gets in. He does up the seat belt as Hannibal closes the car door and joins him a moment later. They're silent as they travel the rest of the short distance home. Sure, it won't be home for much longer, but it's been a home of _firsts_ for him. Their first kiss. Their first bites. Their new start together, a new life and all the ups and downs that had followed. And as much as he's comfortable and content within these four walls, Will knows his home is wherever Hannibal is. It's cheesy, but for a man like Will Graham who's never felt like he'd belonged, it's meaningful.

Will's obedient as he undoes the somewhat stiff dress shoes and slips off the suit jacket. All dressed up and they're back home now (but he'd tried, dammit). It's with a sense of conviction that Will's legs take him upstairs. He's a little nervous, erection having flagged a little, but Will's not worried about that. He goes to their room -- yeah, it's their room now. He turns on the lamp, he hears Hannibal in the bathroom getting cleaned up. There's a depraved part of Will that doesn't care if they're bloody, but he's not going to even try and voice that to Hannibal. It wouldn't be sanitary with dried blood on their hands and all. Hannibal returns to him only in boxers and Will's eyes are hungry as they look over the familiar: the bullet hole scar, the planes of his stomach and chest, the body hair, long legs, the musculature. Hannibal's body is well known to him and the realization of that closeness is staggering. Will can only comply with Hannibal's instruction, his bloody hands raising between them as Hannibal begins to clean them.

_'Do you trust me, Will?'_

Five words, but not a simple question. "I did see through the bars of your plight and ache for you," Will answers softly. "I _do_ ache for you."

Hannibal will surely understand the Dante reference. Will hadn't explicitly told Hannibal what Bedelia had said to him, but he assumes Hannibal will put two and two together. After all, the poignant lines before his statement...

"And I do trust you." It's an admission that should feel harder to give, but it's not. The words are already out. Will's tired of fighting, of holding back. All the bloody paths led here, led to this man, and Will is going to let himself fall.

* * *

The cloth passes slowly over Will's palms, freeing his skin from the blood's hold. Each finger is paid the same attention, and Hannibal takes care to work with delicate hands as he cleans the blood out from under Will's nails. It's intimate work, particularly given their state of dress. Once more Will holds the power, dressed far more than Hannibal is, and yet Hannibal cares little. He stands in front of Will, unashamed of the way he holds himself, still hard enough to observe and yet doing nothing about it. His focus is on Will, on freeing his skin from blood that has no place on his hands. Bit by bit it's like the brief interlude had never happened, like Hannibal had never walked out of Will's sight. He takes his time, passing the cloth in slow motions over Will's fingers as he holds his hands, and Will's earlier words once again alight in his mind. Hannibal breathes slowly. If Will is going to allow him this, he won't squander it by rushing. It feels like sin to even consider wasting this moment.

Especially when Will answers Hannibal's question with something that takes a moment to register. Hannibal recognizes Dante immediately, but he's somewhat surprised that _Will_ knows the quote. Then, as if the blinders had suddenly been ripped from his eyes, Hannibal goes still once more. The cloth slows and comes to rest upon the back of Will's hand, and Hannibal blinks before darting a quick, stunned look at Will. Words - a demand to know more, to ask if Will _knows_ what he'd just said - get stuck in his throat. They're too big, too pressing to voice when he feels so stunned. Yet with every second of silence that passes once Will finishes speaking, with every moment that Hannibal looks at Will like he's seeing him for the first time all over again, Hannibal realizes that the phrasing had been intentional. Will knows. Will knows, and he'd still said it.

It takes him only moments to understand that this is likely Bedelia's influence. Once again he spares her a bitter thought but dismisses it, for Will's admission goes beyond Bedelia Du Maurier. She isn't worth his time when Will has just admitted... Hannibal swallows thickly against the thought and there's emotion in his eyes when his shock fades to something softer. He knows. It doesn't matter that his throat feels tight, or that the urge to enfold this man in his arms is almost overwhelming. Hannibal simply draws the cloth away from Will's hand and reaches over to set it aside. He's silent as he draws a breath, gathering himself together, and when he turns back to Will, Hannibal reaches a hand up and brushes two of his fingers over the edge of Will's jaw, reverent.

"Every day, locked away, it was only you, Will. My nourishment was the thought of you. That hasn't changed. Every day I need only look at you and I feel that familiar, aching hunger."

Hannibal takes a single step closer and urges Will's chin up slowly once again. This time he does it by cupping Will's cheeks in both of his hands and gently guiding him up. Hannibal kisses him then, slowly, a gentle glide of lips that roots him there, like tethers in his very soul. He breathes in everything that Will is, from the unfamiliar scent of the product Will had allowed him to use in his hair, to the overly-familiar scent of his skin, his clothes, the familiar heat glancing off of his skin. He guides Will in the kiss, slow, breaking it only twice just to reclaim the pleasure of Will allowing Hannibal to kiss him again, and again. Their foreheads press together, the space between them all shared breath and heat, and it's with a shuddering breath that Hannibal allows his hands to slide back down.

They fit to the buttons on Will's shirt, undoing the button on his slightly-stiff collar and then the next down. He follows the line, slow, careful, until he has to stop in order to undo the buttons on Will's vest, but even that takes him only moments. Hannibal kisses him again, not rushing with it. What need has he to rush now? Now that he _has_ this man. There's pain within, a blissfully agonizing ache in Hannibal's chest that makes his eyes sting, but he's quiet, holding himself together. He breaks the kiss with a soft, wet sound and breathes Will in once more, ever reverent.

"Will you allow me this, Will? Will you allow me the freedom I ask to ensure you feel good?"

* * *

Hannibal is nothing but thorough in cleansing him of the dried blood. Finger by finger, nail beds, palms, the backs of his hand, slowly the blood is wiped away... The woman's fear feels further and further, fading, being replaced by Hannibal's warmth and complete focus. It reminds him a little of the womb of blood that he'd hallucinated when... when Hannibal had fingered him. Christ, he's going to have that happen again. Hannibal inside of him. First his fingers, then his dick. Will's not even afraid. A little antsy, sure, but he expects there to be a low level of nerves when doing anything new. He _does_ trust Hannibal. He has no reason not to. Everything Hannibal has said and done for him after coming here. Everything Hannibal has proven to him. Will doesn't know if he believes in souls and the like, but if he does have one, Hannibal has surely touched it. Hannibal's soul resonates with his own. Like the music...

He hasn't said it. Not directly, but it's implied in his words. He loves Hannibal. He _loves_ Hannibal. It's not as shocking to him because Will's known and thought about it for what feels like months now. Will can tell he's shaken up Hannibal, though. Yeah, they're not his words, but perhaps this is another allowance from Will, another attempt to show that he's willing to try. He'd got the bespoke suit, he'd been in the car next to Hannibal on the way to the opera. So, he'll allude to it with Dante. It doesn't even matter that it had been Bedelia who'd mentioned the unmentionable. This is their moment right now and not even she can spoil it.

He lets Hannibal look at him. He lets Hannibal's eyes search his face and find the truth there. (One day Will is going to say it. State it plainly. Repeat it over and over to make up for lost time, but not tonight.) The cloth is put away. Will's hands are clean. He feels pure as Hannibal touches his jaw. He doesn't doubt Hannibal's words. He doesn't scoff at the knowledge that Hannibal endured his incarceration by thinking of him. Will has seen the lingering glances Hannibal thinks he doesn't see. Will knows that this thing between them isn't going to drown them. He's already tried. They're going to both fall, but they're together, limbs entwined, hands reaching out and grasping. (And maybe it's going to be a disaster at the end - it's the landing that kills - but they'll do that together too.)

His face cupped, Will lets himself be soft. There's no reason to have his hackles up, to suspect or fear. Lips meet again and Will shudders. How many times has he kissed this man? How can it feel so different now? Love, of course. Didn't love color over everything, splashes of different hues creating something new, mixed from the both of them? Will does ache, even now. His hands fall to his sides as Hannibal's forehead presses to his own. They breathe the same air. Arousal blends with love and Will wants to do so much, say so much, but he remains still for Hannibal. He can do this.

Hannibal's hands drop to undo the buttons of this collar. Will glances down as fingers deftly begin the task. Hannibal has always been smooth with undressing him, practiced and thorough, quick if needs to be. Will's own hands are more antsy, impatient, but Hannibal still lets him try. He meets Hannibal's mouth when Hannibal leans in and Will kisses back slowly. He can tell Hannibal wants to keep things unrushed - tender - so Will holds himself back. He won't take, he won't press.

"Yes," is all Will can reply with. Yes, he trusts Hannibal. Yes, he loves Hannibal. Yes, he will allow Hannibal the time, the freedom. He'll fall, he'll keep on falling, rest of the world be damned.

* * *

Will hasn't said the words, but as Hannibal cradles his face in his hands, as their lips meet tenderly and he tastes oceans of history between them, he wonders if Will needs to. Is the implication not good enough? Is Hannibal's emotion not enough for them both? He kisses Will and he focuses on the slow, careful sensation of his lips - slightly chapped from the cold air outside - against his own. Hannibal kisses and tastes, coaxing Will's lips parted on one kiss and slipping his tongue in to taste deeper on the next. He feels Will's control, feels the way he wants to lean in, to do more, and yet Hannibal merely guides him in the kiss, hands gentle on Will's cheeks until he finally eases them back down to the rest of Will's buttons.

Hannibal doesn't stop kissing him as he undoes the final few buttons of Will's shirt, sliding the tails of his shirt out so that he can stroke his hands in a slow glide over Will's bare skin, from the jagged cut of the scar across his abdomen all the way up to the scar along his clavicle. It's with a sensual slowness that Hannibal eases both shirt and vest from Will's shoulders, setting both aside in the chair nearby to be folded and cleaned later. The desire to explore the expanse of skin suddenly bared to him is tempting; the outline of Hannibal's erection is still a clear indication of his desire for this man, and yet he doesn't deviate from what Will had asked of him. Will wants Hannibal to undress him and Hannibal wants nothing more than that in this moment. So, breaking the kiss only to draw a quick breath, he steps forward and carefully guides Will back to the bed.

"Sit," Hannibal instructs quietly, his voice a little breathless, though not before stealing another kiss. He lets Will sit as he'd instructed and as Will watches him closely, Hannibal looks him over, admiring the picture he makes. Then he bends one knee and slowly lowers himself down to kneel in front of Will on the floor. It's a position that might have been provocative under different circumstances, but the reverence in Hannibal's eyes makes it clear that - at least for now - his focus is clear. He slides his hands over Will's thighs and quietly undoes his belt, splaying the soft leather open so he can undo the button on his slacks. His fingers work carefully and the sound of the zipper lowering is almost too loud in the affected silence between them. Hannibal bends down to press a simple kiss to Will's knee and then gently taps his thigh. "Lift your hips for me. Then I want you to lay back on the bed."

Will complies, and Hannibal watches him, silently reverent at the grace Will can manage when he puts his mind to it. He's clearly feeling tender as well, as the quick, jerking movements have been replaced with a pointed slowness. Hannibal doesn't have to wonder to know that this is for him, and so when Will lifts his hips, Hannibal eases his slacks down and sets them aside. He leaves the last layer on, though when Will does begin shifting to lay back on the bed, Hannibal stops him with a quick hand on his hip.

"Wait. Before you do, allow me..." He touches, stroking the jut of Will's hipbone, and then Hannibal simply leans in. His lips press softly to Will's abdomen, a light touch at first that turns into the faintest scrape of teeth when he reaches Will's scar. It's not enough to hurt but it's enough to _feel_ as he hums a soft, reverent note and his hands slide back down Will's bare thighs. It's slow, just shy of worshipful. Hannibal gently spreads Will's legs, though only to press his thumb to the faded bite along his inner thigh.

* * *

Will's usually the one doing the undressing. His hands demanding and quick, impatient and purposeful. For years he'd wanted to make a mess out of Hannibal, to rip into him, to tear him open, to have him be vulnerable and exposed and at his mercy. Hannibal has let him. Multiple times even. Hannibal has let him all but attempt to tear his clothes off. Hannibal has let him fuck him, bite him, scratch him hard enough to leave welts. Will's left bruises and scars. He's had Hannibal Lecter with a collar and a fucking leash fashioned out of a belt. He's had Hannibal kneel for him, kill for him, quiet the scream, care for him...

So Will is going to give him this. He's going to behave. He's not going to fight it, not push to be dominant, not take and not ask. He'll be receptive. Hannibal undressing him is a task in and of itself, Hannibal's hands sliding over his skin as he pulls off the vest and dress shirt. Will feels goosebumps raise on his skin from both the touch and exposure to air but he simply breathes slowly. In and out. Alive. He exists in this moment. He backs up and sits on the bed when told to. Hannibal going to his knees is a sight that has Will breathing a little quicker. He can't help it. It's hot and it will always be. But Will merely sits and waits. Hands travel up his thighs, his belt is undone, then the button and zipper of the dress pants. Hannibal's hands don't shake and Will has to silently admire him for it.

After his pants have been slipped off Will's getting ready to lay back when Hannibal stops him. Will halts and looks at Hannibal curiously. He doesn't have to wait long to find out why. Hannibal's slightly wet mouth finds his stomach and Will shudders, his hands forming into fists at his sides when teeth come out to play. It's not violent, but Will feels the hint of a threat, and so close to the scar makes it difficult to stay still. He gasps when his legs are spread and he knows immediately where Hannibal is going to touch: the scar from the bite on his inner thigh. The second and much more intimate scar he'd asked for.

Will keens into the touch, but he has to look away. His head lolls back, eyes staring up at the ceiling. His legs spread wider, his boxers strain further. A "Fuck, Hannibal" slips out and Will tries to keep from squirming too much. Nothing blatantly sexual has happened and yet Will feels insanely worked up. It's a little disconcerting, but he reins in his impatience. He trusts. He's fine. Hannibal has him.

"Hurt so good when you bit me there," Will murmurs, unable to stay quiet.

* * *

Their bodies are an open book, scars telling of their shared history. Were Hannibal to trace his fingers over Will's skin, he'd recognize each and every scar. He can sense the jagged writing on Will's skin as he slides his lips over the scar upon Will's abdomen, just as he can sense the looping calligraphy as his thumb brushes slowly and carefully over the scar on Will's inner-thigh. He remembers giving it to Will, remembers the sounds he'd made, the sharp, heartfelt desperation. Even now he can feel the slightly uneven bite, _his_ mark upon Will's skin, one Will had freely asked for. He listens as Will suddenly keens and Hannibal hums a soft sound in response in the back of his throat. He strokes his thumb over every divot in the scar, against his own brand of sorts, and he doesn't fault Will for needing to look away. This is intimacy that he's not permitted before and if this is the only time Will allows it (Hannibal blessedly gets the feeling it's _not_ ) he intends to take his time.

Hannibal trails slow, soft kisses from Will's abdominal scar over to the lovely jut of one hipbone. His thumb keeps stroking the scar, and perhaps this hasn't been blatantly sexual but Hannibal can scent the heady thickness of Will's arousal. He can _see_ the outline of his cock in his boxers and he will address it in time. For now, he gets to take his time.

"I couldn't believe you would allow me to bite you, to scar you," Hannibal admits quietly. He kisses a slow trail down from Will's hip. One kiss he places to the fabric stretched over the head of Will's cock, a quick promise, before Hannibal carefully guides Will's legs spread further.

"I can still hear your voice in my mind, how good you sounded. You look stunning, Will," Hannibal adds as he bends just enough to press his lips to the sensitive skin of Will's inner-thigh. He gently scrapes his teeth over the scar left behind and then kisses it again, as if to soothe. This close, his senses are full of Will and there are endless tomes denoting what Hannibal wishes to _do_ to this man. Yet not everything fits this moment. He has no need to do anything but give Will the pleasure he deserves.

"Lay back for me," Hannibal says into the warm flesh of Will's inner thigh. He kisses him there one last time, then strokes his hands back down and leans back so that Will can properly position himself again. Hannibal watches, one hand remaining fixed on Will's knee the whole time so as not to break contact. It's only when he's managed to lay Will back against the bed that Hannibal finally stands again. He hooks his thumbs into his own underwear and pulls it down, stepping out of them and discarding them there. The cool air is almost sharp against his heated skin, but Hannibal only pays his own arousal an idle thought before he climbs up next to Will on the bed. He's unashamed in his nudity, but he's also casual with it. He does nothing to draw Will's attention down. Instead Hannibal props himself up beside Will and leans over him, leaning in to once again kiss him, slow and careful.

The fingers of one hand curl gently into Will's hair, stroking softly. Hannibal takes his time, kissing Will slow, coaxing his lips open again and kissing him deeply. His fingers curl in against Will's hair, nails just barely scratching at his scalp, slow, sensual. He knows Will is already hard, already wanting, and Hannibal wants nothing more than to give him pleasure, but he wants Will to experience everything, not just the physical act.

"How do you feel?" Hannibal murmurs against Will's lips, slipping one of his legs over Will's in order to get closer, to feel the slide of skin so close.

* * *

They have each gained a few more scars since coming to live together. Acts of reciprocity. Hannibal has bit him on the neck and thigh and Will has sunk his teeth into Hannibal's own neck. Marks of ownership first, then marks of love. Animalistic, sure, but rooted in a deep reservoir of feeling. They've tasted each other's flesh and blood and both have lived to tell the tale. It's beyond difficult to let Hannibal map out scars and be still. Hannibal's mouth is soft but burning, his thumb gentle yet insistent. Hannibal's gentle admittance - that he'd been surprised that Will would _allow_ him to bite and scar - has Will's lips quirking at the corners. He understands, but how could he not? _Closer_ and _more_ and this is now a new layer of that.

When a gentle kiss is placed against the tip of his covered cock, Will sighs. His hands clench but Will stays still. The compliment paid his way... He would have scoffed before, but now he's silent. Will allows the words. He tries to _feel_ them, to be _okay_ with them. It's all right to be stunning for Hannibal, it's all right to have sounded good. He wants Hannibal's favor, his attention, it's nothing to be embarrassed over now. His silence doesn't last long because Hannibal's mouth touches down on his thigh, teeth grazing and a groan is ripped out of Will. Will shudders. He wants to ask for another bite, perhaps on the other thigh, a mirroring mark like Hannibal's own scars along his wrists.

But Will doesn't. He doesn't want to be selfish, he doesn't want to be demanding. (Because he knows Hannibal would give it him, of course he would.)

When Hannibal deems it time to lie back, Will obeys. His eyes look at the ceiling, focusing, searching, but finding no answers. The questions he'd ask? ' _How is this my life? What have I done to deserve this?_ ' Will distantly registers Hannibal standing and the sounds of Hannibal stripping himself completely. And then the bed dips as Hannibal joins him and Will's heart beats faster as he feels Hannibal naked and close and kissing him again. Will's hands grip at Hannibal's biceps. He runs his hands up and down appreciatively as Hannibal runs his fingers through his hair. The kissing is slow and deep and it has Will struggling to catch his breath. Occasionally his nails dig into Hannibal's arms, but Will doesn't turn rough, he doesn't seek to change the pace of things.

"I'm good," Will answers and he actually smiles, gazing up at Hannibal who's a comfortable weight half on top of him. Will's hands stroke down Hannibal's shoulders softly, feeling familiar skin underneath his fingertips. "Really good. How 'bout you?"

* * *

There are multiple chances Will gets to turn things rough, chances he could take to lash out, to bite, to claw, and yet with every kiss, with every stroke of Hannibal's fingers through his hair, he allows Hannibal to lead. He doesn't fight back in each kiss, doesn't grab at his hair to yank Hannibal into a different position. He doesn't even force the kisses rougher. Instead Will's soft and pliant under him, skin warm, lips soft, and once again Hannibal can hardly believe this. How a car accident and the subsequent stress had led to this is beyond him and yet he doesn't want to question it. Why bother? Will is close to him, willing, his hands gentle on his arms, his nails occasionally digging into his skin just enough to send a small thrill through him.

They've not truly allowed this before, not to this extent. They've both explored, both delighted, both taken their time, but not with this freedom of mind. Will's not smiled at him like this, not for some time. He's not permitted Hannibal this close, hasn't stroked his hands over Hannibal's skin just shy of reverently. It's enough that when Hannibal breaks the kiss, he merely looks down at Will, silently admiring the picture he makes. His hair is dark against the pillow, the rise of each muscle highlighted by the moonlight casting its silvery glow through the window. Hannibal again marvels that this is real, that Will is _allowing_ this. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but he's never had Will's words to back it up before, the implication of true sentiment, nor the knowledge of what Will is going to allow.

So hearing that Will is good, seeing his smile, hearing his question back, Hannibal strokes his fingers back through Will's hair, brushing his bangs back away from his eyes. He doesn't smile but he doesn't have to. There's warmth in his eyes as he bends to steal another slow, searching kiss.

"Simple words seem almost insulting compared to how I feel," he murmurs, and catches Will's lower lip between his own, sucking carefully until the skin is beautifully flushed. "I am... humbled, that you've asked this of me. That you're allowing this. You need only tell me if you'd like something more, if you have any further requests. I want you to feel good, Will. You have a say."

Hannibal's hand slides down then, moving from Will's hair in a slow, artful stroke down his neck, then down the center of Will's chest. Hannibal touches him everywhere he can as he bends down, lips following the path his hand takes. He kisses down Will's throat, pausing to scrape his teeth over his bite mark on Will's neck. He moves lower, kissing a slow path down Will's clavicle, down over his chest.

* * *

He feels a little crazy, a little out of his element. Smiling like a lovesick idiot. Smiling at Hannibal. Allowing Hannibal to touch and take his time all with the promise of you-know-what happening at the end. Happening sometime, hopefully soon. Will's never been great with patience, but he knows Hannibal is in no hurry in this task... And truthfully Will thinks he's all right with not hurrying too. Certain times have been almost frenzied with him. His hands demanding, his mouth greedy, his body unrelenting. Hannibal had allowed him. Hannibal had still enjoyed it. But this is different.

Reverent. Laced with love. Worshipful. (And Will doesn't know what he's done to ever deserve to be cherished, but some questions don't need answers.)

He can be good still. Hannibal still wants him. Hannibal can do good too. The thoughts seem simple on the surface, but monumental to _feel_ and believe. (And _know_.) He knows. He knows. He knows. This is _what_ he's chosen. This is _who_ he's chosen and it's beautiful and consuming, like a forest fire. And Will would choose this again, if given another choice, another chance, he'd choose Hannibal. A man who almost seems otherworldly by times, not necessarily good, not evil, a man with flaws and regrets. This is who Will loves.

They've each made mistakes, they've each hurt and been hurt, but neither one of them is keeping a tally. Will both sees and feels the warmth in Hannibal's eyes. The sheer magnitude of love. And Will's not surprised by Hannibal's answer -- that words would never capture the feelings. He understands the sentiment. And of course Hannibal would mention that he's allowed to request. That he has a _say_. Will's eyes shut. Emotion squeezes at his throat and his hands squeeze at Hannibal's shoulders. It's too much. It's not too much. He teeters. A hand touches down his neck and chest and when Hannibal's mouth follows, Will arcs off the bed.

"I've taken much in-in the past. Demanded much," Will says softly, lifting his hands to settle in Hannibal's hair. He strokes gently. "I want to let you have the same freedom. It's your turn. I trust you."

* * *

They can both be good. The concept is a foreign one to Hannibal, but not an unpleasant one. Despite everything that he and Will have been through, even now he doesn't truly care about being good. He cares that _Will_ needs him to be, in a sense. Healing those who need to be healed, killing those who prey on the innocent... if this is what Will needs from him to feel settled in his own skin, this is what Hannibal is willing to allow. In Hannibal's mind, he'd never truly preyed on the innocent, merely the rude. Yet he knows there must have been some overlap there in Will's mind, yet Will has apparently long forgiven him that. Why else would he be allowing this? Why else would Will's eyes slide shut as his hands squeeze almost too tightly against Hannibal's shoulders? Hannibal watches him, watches the beautiful play of emotions over Will's face, and he hums a soft note of satisfaction as his lips come to rest just below Will's ribs. Here he can feel the flex and twitch of his muscles, can feel the need and desperation. Despite that - despite the way Hannibal tells him he _can_ be selfish - Will chooses against it. Instead he's quick to reassure, to tell Hannibal that he wants _him_ to take, to demand.

Yet above all, the notion that Will _trusts_ him is enough to make even Hannibal go still. There are many reasons even now why trust is a dangerous concept. They co-exist, they care, and yet there is still much they hold back. A few short months won't be able to break down the walls in their minds and yet as Will lays before him, his hands slowly sliding into Hannibal's hair to stroke, Hannibal can see this man far more than he'd ever been able to before. He can't help the way he relaxes and doesn't bother to muffle the soft sound that he makes at the feeling of Will's fingers stroking gently through his hair. Shivers of sensation curl through his body and Hannibal kisses just under the last of Will's ribs. "Very well," Hannibal murmurs, and while his words are careful, the sentiment behind them is blatant. His voice is rougher, though less because of arousal and more due to emotion.

So Hannibal does what he's allowed to do. He touches Will's skin like he's precious, like his pages could crack or paint could chip were his touch just a little too heavy. He kisses the path his hands take, reverent, and Hannibal eases himself down on the bed. He's slow, unhurried, and as his hands move, he doubts there's an inch of skin displayed to him that he doesn't touch and then stroke over again at his own leisure. He presses in just a little after the first pass, and his thumbs gently rub small circles into the tighter muscles of Will's pectorals, easing some of the tension as Hannibal's lips finally fall to the scar upon his abdomen.

"It's almost overwhelming, the notion of trust," he whispers against Will's skin. "After all we've done, that you could manage it if only for a moment is far more humbling than I can say. Be open with me. Tell me if you like something, or if you don't. Nothing would please me more than knowing you feel good."

* * *

He knows he's spread out before Hannibal, a veritable feast. His eyes may be closed, but Hannibal is observing every twitch of his muscles, every emotion that plays across his features. Hannibal is listening and delighting in every gasp, every groan. Will's laid bare here; he may not be quite naked, not like Hannibal, but there's a vulnerability that transcends the amount of clothing one is wearing. It's something that resonates with his soul. And Will feels a bit like a fanciful idiot to be thinking like this, but he feels so in-tune with Hannibal, so fundamentally _all right_ with what is happening, that it's staggering.

He's not fucking used to feeling all right. He's used to the conflict, to the struggle, to the indecision. To the guilt, and the shame, and the frustration. But Hannibal has somehow calmed his waters, waves gentled enough to wade out into the stream of Will. And does Will want to be known like _this_? In every fucking way possible? Gentle and soft, slow and thorough? Tender instead of sharp?

Yes.

Hannibal's hands touch, his mouth kisses. His skin is explored and although each touch isn't severe, it lights up sensation. Will's hands fall from Hannibal's hair to his sides, fingernails scratching at the bedspread. He doesn't try to keep quiet or still, he squirms when something is sensitive or feels good, he gasps and lets whatever pleasured sounds fall from his mouth. It's rather nice to be inhibited, to let it all go.

"Before... I remember biting my lip to try and stay quiet," Will admits, his voice silvery and light. His fingers relax, splaying out and rubbing against the fabric. This is him being open. "Don't think I could even attempt to do that now." Hannibal's lips move along his scar and Will shakes. He knows he'd let Hannibal take a blade to his skin. He'd let Hannibal do anything now. (Trust is frightening.)

"It all feels good... Tu te sens bien." (You feel good.)

Will scratches at the bed again, feeling a surge of emotion he doesn't even know how to sort through. "Christ... You managed it," Will suddenly gasps. "I don't know how, but you managed to get inside of everything. My mind, my heart." This is the kind of thing he'd _think_ , but never say, but perhaps it's time to get out of his head.

"I'm sure this love is going to devour us, I'm sure we're going to end in ruin, but I don't care."

* * *

Will is a thrilling warmth under him. Where once Will had been quiet and had attempted to hide his need, now he's nothing but open. Hannibal silently revels in each deep sound, every shuddering gasp as he maps out Will's body like he's never touched him before. There isn't an inch of skin that escapes him, though initially he does bypass that which is still covered in clothing. His hands slide down Will's legs, lips kissing, the roughness of his stubble scratching over Will's skin where it's grown out since he'd last shaved. Yet through it all, Hannibal only has eyes for Will, for each beautiful squirm and gasp, for the sigh of his eyes slid shut in pleasure, the delicate part of his lips, every single thing denied to him before. Hannibal swallows as he basks in the sight, and when he finally eases himself back up to map kisses over Will's throat - rougher than before, but still amorous - he hums to show he's heard him.

"Good. You sound exquisite, Will. You feel just as good. If you wish to touch me, you're allowed. There's no need to hold yourself back," Hannibal says against his skin, like he's etching the words into Will's skin like a tattoo. Hannibal's hand slides slowly up the center of Will's chest before moving back down in a slow, delicate scratch aimed only to leave soft pink marks behind. A lick of pain in the pleasure, yet an increase of intimacy. And when Will speaks again, his voice a beautiful gasp, Hannibal shudders and he takes a moment to gather his own thoughts anew. The concept of Will and Will's love has never been truly said aloud before, and in a sense, it's still silent to him. Yet despite this, the way Will speaks, the words he chooses... it all slides through Hannibal's chest like a fire, warming him from the inside.

"If that is true, if this _love_ devours us, if the walls of Jericho come crashing and crumbling down around us to leave us in ruin, I wish only that we face it together. If we end in ruin, provided it's with you by my side, with your hand in mine, let it come," Hannibal murmurs, and his voice is sharper, edged.

He breathes in, capturing Will's scent, reveling in it, and then he reaches down once more. With careful prompting touches, he urges Will to lift his hips, and then he gently strips him down the rest of the way. His hands pass over Will's skin, teasing the line of his cock, the delicate skin beneath, then he slides his hand down further, between his legs, one finger moving further to delicately press against his hole. His fingers are dry so he does nothing more than touch for a moment, silently assessing as he leans in and presses slow kisses over Will's jaw. Then he nods to the side table.

"Would you reach into the drawer and hand me the bottle, Will?" Both to give Will a task to focus his attention on and to ensure this is still something he wants. Hannibal feels raw, his cock aching already, but nothing is as pressing to him as the look in Will's eyes.

* * *

There's still a pathetic part that dislikes using the word 'love.' A part that wants to scorn the very idea, but it doesn't make much sense now. For months Will had prodded Hannibal into saying it, enjoying the declaration of love, how foreign it sounded, how _resolute_. Will doesn't think he's ever doubted Hannibal loving him. Not since he'd truly looked into Hannibal's eyes the morning after Henri. It still hasn't escaped him that he hasn't stated his love plainly for Hannibal. He knows it's not needed. He's under no obligation and yet...

Will's caught between focusing on the light scratching down his chest, and Hannibal’s words as he breathes harshly. Will can feel the ruin, Will can see it. Sirens, lights flashing, the chaos, the walls closing in, and yet he knows Hannibal's words are true. ' _If we end in ruin, provided it's with you by my side, with your hand in mine, let it come.'_ It feels like it's a brand on his very soul, Hannibal's voice edged with a tempting darkness. Before Will would want to explore it, to observe and possibly even exploit it, but now it merely can exist. He lets it fill him up. He feels it.

Will lifts his hips for Hannibal to finish the task of undressing him. The touch over his cock and balls is light, but goes further back and Will swallows as he spreads his legs. His eyes flutter at the sensitivity of Hannibal's finger merely brushing against his hole. The kissing on his face is barely a distraction, but Will doesn't really need it. Not now. He wants to be present for anything and everything. It's taken him months to get to this point, to feel truly accepted and fundamentally _all right_. Will doesn't want to be absent for a single second of this. When asked to grab lube, Will takes a moment to gather himself and complies. He passes it to Hannibal.

"Still want this," he insists. "Still want you."

* * *

For a moment, Hannibal wonders how present Will is in this moment. His eyes are dark and dazed and there's a beautiful flush to his skin. He's responding well, but he looks almost drunk on it by times. Not that Hannibal minds. Seeing Will like this, seeing the pleasure in his eyes, the way he squirms against the bed, is everything he could have wanted. Hannibal wets his lips as he watches, and when Will seems to draw himself together in order to respond in actions, not words, Hannibal lets himself relax. He watches Will open the drawer and grope for the bottle of lube, and when he passes it over, Hannibal's fingers graze against Will's gently, an encouraging slide to serve as thanks as he leans down and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Will's chest. Yet beyond even that are the words, the reassurance. Will wants this. Wants _him._ The rush of warmth and desire Hannibal feels is almost blinding and he takes a slow breath to counteract it, to focus.

"As do I want you," he says, though it hardly needs to be said. Hannibal shifts then, opening the bottle with one hand and pouring out an almost artful line of lubrication along the fingers of his opposite hand. Rubbing them together, he reaches down and leans in to kiss Will's chest the moment he presses one finger against the tight ring of muscle there. He does nothing but touch at first, warming the lube against Will's skin and stroking slow, teasing circles over Will's skin.

"I wonder by times if you truly understand how I see you. I call you beautiful. I call you stunning. Yet the words seem sorely underwhelming by comparison. You are a unique creature, _mylimasis_ ," Hannibal breathes, pressing just a little harder, dipping the tip of his finger in before withdrawing. He repeats it slowly, providing stimulation at his own leisure. "Artful and rugged, timid but fierce. A complete dichotomy within your own skin. My impossible, reckless boy."

Hannibal kisses him then. He makes no show of it, doesn't make Will wait for it. He merely leans over him and guides Will into a slow kiss. A slide of lips that parts only for breath, and which he takes advantage of in order to lick into the warmth of Will's mouth, tasting him deeply. He waits until he deems Will sufficiently relaxed and then slowly eases his finger in deeper, moving in slow thrusts, languid, almost sensual, pausing between kisses to re-apply more lube as needed.

"You wear so many of my marks, as I do yours," he adds, speaking in a warm murmur against Will's lips. "Old canvases interspersed with our own vision. Taking what _was_ and making it what _is_. I call you beautiful, and you're mine. I call you stunning and I wonder how it is that you've let me hold onto you for so long. I call you _mine_ , and it is part assurance and part prayer. I tell you I love you," he adds, and pauses merely to kiss Will's forehead as his finger within Will's body curls slowly, "and though the words seem impossibly underwhelming compared to the truth, I wonder if anything I have ever said has been _more_ truthful."

* * *

He watches the effect his simple assurances have on Hannibal, how Hannibal seems to need to take a deeper breath to rein himself in. Has he ever said it so plainly, so openly before? Will doesn't know and he doesn't want to go search his mind through all the shit he _has_ said to Hannibal. Hissed threats, dismissive gestures, whispered taunts... It hardly seems possible that he could somehow come to a place like this, that Hannibal has put up with so much. But they've both been through a great deal.

(How did forgiveness sneak up on him? How did love manage to grow despite the darkness and amidst the pain? He'll never know and that's okay. It's okay. He accepts it.)

Will breathes. His chest rises and falls. Alive, thriving? Together, together, together and Will looks up at the same ceiling he's seen for months now but it feels different. He's both different and the same. Changed, but still himself.

And then there's suddenly a lot more feeling when a slick finger rubs against him. He's had this done once before but it's still unfamiliar. Around and around Hannibal's finger rubs, slow circles that have Will straining from the sheer sensitivity of such a simple action. Then Hannibal speaks... And Will hangs onto every word. The Lithuanian word - the nickname? - Will hasn't asked what it means yet, but the tip of Hannibal's finger breeches him and Will gasps. But then the finger is pulling out and it's a bit of an antsy tease that has Will's skin breaking out in a sheen of sweat.

' _My impossible, reckless boy..._ ' Will's lips pull into a small smile that's quickly kissed off of him. Will lets himself enjoy the slow dance of a kiss, eyes sliding closed. He groans into the kiss when Hannibal's finger _finally_ pushes inside. It's intimate and closer and--

' _I call you stunning and I wonder how it is that you've let me hold onto you for so long. I call you mine, and it is part assurance and part prayer. I tell you I love you...'_

Will's hands reach out to grab at Hannibal's shoulders. His heart is beating faster and he knows it's not just because Hannibal is fingering him open. He's thought of Hannibal as his religion, as his own system of faith, and Will is now sure this is the case. He jerks, arcing off the bed as Hannibal's finger grazes his prostate and he digs his nails into Hannibal's skin. The weird pleasure shoots through him and Will almost misses Hannibal's next words.

"You're my truth, Hannibal," Will gasps out. His eyes open and they feel wet, but he doesn't care. He'll let Hannibal undo him, he'll let himself be bared and open.

* * *

This is not something he's allowed himself in quite some time. The climate between them has bent and shifted, moving from a deep, artless resentment on Will's part to something complacent, to sudden recklessness and back down again. Will has fought, he's struggled. He's strained at the bit, and then allowed himself reprieve. Hannibal's impossible, reckless boy indeed. Yet as time has changed the both of them, Will's sharp edges have been tempered. He's lashed out and cut less frequently, and while there are still whirlwinds of emotion that can make him flare up like a bright, burning sun (leashes and sparring and the need to see Hannibal kill and save), he's begun to settle. His struggles are calmer. Hannibal doesn't doubt that they will rise once more. He doesn't doubt that he will carefully guide Will back from the edge in the future, but as he lays there and feels the way Will's body moves under him, the way he reaches out to grab at Hannibal's shoulders, Hannibal knows it's worth it. They've passed the point of doubt.

So he whispers his truth into the heat of Will's skin, and he feels each lascivious undulation of Will's body as pleasure curls through him. The bite of nails into his shoulders draws a low sound from him, a low, nearly-decadent groan and Hannibal coaxes it even further by rolling his shoulders into the discomfort. The pain is a perfect complement to the gripping heat of Will's body, a reminder that just as Will's body struggles to accommodate, so too must Hannibal's. He feels the grip around his finger, feels the slight bump of his prostate, and Hannibal focuses delicate attention around it, giving pleasure but not demanding it just yet. Small rewards as he re-learns the way Will's body feels around him, as he catalogs every gasp to fall from Will's lips.

Nothing prepares him for the sight Will makes once he responds, though. The dampness to his eyes is immediately apparent and Hannibal wishes to protect and rend in equal measure. The desires lodge somewhere in his throat, conflicting and sharp, before protection wins out. When it comes to Will, while there will always be a battle, nurturing wins over destroying.

"That's it," Hannibal praises under his breath, the words all but etched into Will's skin as he steadily rocks his finger within Will's body. He's slow, gradual, spreading lube around and waiting until the tightness around him begins to ease on every push inwards.

"If I am your truth, I wish only to tell you what challenges you. What makes you better. What comforts you at night and drives you on each morning." Hannibal rolls his shoulders into the bite of Will's nails again, silently urging, and when he draws his finger back the next time, it's to both stroke his fingers over the rim of Will's hole and to apply more lube. When Hannibal eases his finger back in, it's with another carefully nudging and easing inside. Perhaps it's pushing, perhaps it's a little much, but he has no doubt that Will can take it, and no doubt that Will won't be satisfied with something so overtly gentle the whole way through.

"I will not let you hide from me, or from yourself, Will. You're so very dear to me."

* * *

There's no other way to look at this moment other than it (him) holding a certain softer vulnerability. Will's been vulnerable before, but it had always been tinged with desperation, his coarse edges ever present. There had been no calm, no acceptance of it. Life and looking into the minds of others has taught him to be guarded, to be wary, and to expect strife and struggle. He'd seen it enough through the vile, the sick and the broken. Hannibal had done much to solidify Will's distrust, but for each weight that had been placed on the scale, Hannibal has worked to go further than simply balancing it out.

The scale doesn't matter anymore. Will doesn't know when that's exactly happened, what flipped the switch, or if it was merely an amalgamation of little things. But they're here now, at this point, where past wrongs and betrayals are just that: in the past. He doesn't cry. It's not really a moment to cry, it's just emotion and yeah, emotion can be unsettling. Will hasn't forgotten what kind of man Hannibal still is... But nothing sharp comes his way, no surprise blades. Hannibal has him, his finger working him open. And Will knows Hannibal is not lying. Hannibal will challenge him. Hannibal wants him to be better, to be stronger, but to also be himself. Before, in Baltimore and near courting Hannibal, Will had assumed a similar shape, presented himself to both flatter and appeal, but it hadn't been entirely truthful, no. Will's not quite sure about the form he's taken now - if he's done changing - but Hannibal remains interested with him, fascinated by his shape and Will is cherished.

The stretch intensifies to an uncomfortable sting when Hannibal eases a second finger in. It's a little too quick maybe, but Will can take it. It's what he needs, even. He gasps, eyelids fluttering, not knowing if he wants to close his eyes or where to look. Hannibal's words about not hiding have Will half-smiling, lips pulling up at the corners as he rocks against Hannibal's fingers. He wants more, he wants to burn up in Hannibal.

"You don't hid from God," Will murmurs, fond amusement evident in his tone. He then lets go of Hannibal's shoulders, raising his arms above his head, hands reaching out to grip the spindles on the headboard. He knows exactly how he looks as he licks lips and catches Hannibal's eyes.

"You wanted me to hold onto them, right?" He's referring to Hannibal's shared fantasy. Hannibal had wanted him to hold onto them, to not move...

* * *

Despite it being too much, Will bears each second admirably. The sensation alone is enough to send small shivers up Hannibal's spine. Will's body is as tight now as it had been when he'd first carefully used his fingers, but beyond the physical sensation is merely Will, the picture he makes, the sounds that spill like liquid gold from his lips. Hannibal aches in that singular moment to lean in and kiss Will again, to taste his lips and lick into his mouth and lose himself in the sheer vulnerability that Will is so freely offering up to him. He doesn't, but not out of a sense of restraint or denial. No, as Will's lips part and Hannibal watches the curl of sensation flicker behind his eyes, Hannibal wishes only to hear the way the gasps fall from Will's lips, to witness the way he squirms and presses back. Hannibal's breath catches in the back of his throat at the sight of Will's smile, and somehow it strikes him harder than the feeling of Will taking both of his fingers in deeper. Hannibal swallows, and words catch behind his lips simply because he can't bear to interrupt Will like this.

He's glad he doesn't. Hearing Will repeat words from so long ago, knowing the implication of them like this, and hearing them said with such fondness is enough to rend Hannibal open where he is. But absolutely nothing can possibly prepare him for the sight of Will carefully drawing his hands back. Hannibal watches as he reaches up to the spindles of the bed and grips onto them, and before Will even mentions what Hannibal had said that night in his whispered fantasy, he knows what Will is doing. Something twists sharply behind Hannibal's chest like a thin blade and when he breathes, it's on a small shudder of emotion. He recalls what he'd said: that he'd ached to see Will sprawled out like this, that he'd ached to be able to touch and kiss him and work him up into almost coming before letting him come back down again, only to start again. Like this, not even Hannibal is certain he has the self-control for that, but seeing Will spread out like a work of art, seeing the way Will bares himself so fully, Hannibal can't help the way his free hand skims over Will's arm, or the reverent kiss that Hannibal presses to the center of Will's chest.

"I sometimes wonder if you will ever cease amazing me," Hannibal says against Will's skin.

He's careful as he works his fingers in deeper, curling them in slow movements that serve as gentle thrusts to let Will get used to the sensation. Looking up at Will, admiring the picture he makes, _basking_ in the sight of him so clearly open, Hannibal resists the urge to move for only a second more. Then he leans up, and the kiss he presses to Will's lips is slow and searching. Hannibal coaxes Will's lips parted, sucking his lower lip until it's full and then deepening the kiss in order to taste Will properly. All the while, he presses in with his fingers, and when he finally has both buried in to the knuckle, Hannibal gives Will time to get used to the sensation before curling them again, as if in reward. He breaks the kiss only to hear the sounds Will makes. Then, wetting his lips, he lowers his voice and when he next speaks, the words are familiar.

 _"_ Je veux être avec toi pour toujours _,_ " Hannibal whispers against Will's lips, words he'd said so many months ago while calming Will down following their first trip outside of their house - their home - back before Will could understand them. _"_ Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. _"_ ( _I want to be with you forever. I can't live without you._ )

* * *

When Hannibal had voiced his fantasy, Will had asked for a demonstration and Hannibal had complied. Will remembers what Hannibal had looked like, familiar hands reaching up to grasp onto a single spindle on the headboard -- all because _he_ had asked. Shortly after that, Will had instructed Hannibal to tell him how their first time would be with Hannibal _taking_ him. Back then he'd known, known that he would let Hannibal do this to him. Inevitable, but _right._ Hannibal had said he was beautiful, desperate and impatient, that he would leave no inch of skin unkissed. It's a little difficult to be realize he's in the position now, that Hannibal could take his time and work him up and he's consented to all of this… but it's all right, it's okay. This is what Will wants.

He believes Hannibal's words. He can see the effect that willingly going to this position has on Hannibal. Hannibal is rapt, completely focused on him. Will basks in it. He lets it fill him and he trusts, he gives into the fingers pushing into his body and effortlessly pulling out his sounds of pleasure, forcing him to squirm and shake. He's kissed, slow and thorough and Will feels both alive and cherished in this heated moment. His hands grip the spindles tightly and his body does adjust to the stretch of two fingers buried inside. When they curl again, it has Will crying out, back arching off the bed from the jittery sensation.

He barely has time to process it because Hannibal lapses into French. It takes Will a moment to translate and then another moment to actually remember to put two and two together. After feeling overwhelmed, he'd asked Hannibal to say something nice about him, but in another language. Hannibal had ended with the French. The same two statements he's just said now. Will shudders, tensing from the surge of emotion. (It's fucking staggering how much Hannibal has done for him merely because he's _asked_.) It's like falling, a rush with a threat of danger, because to _need_ and _love_ carves a way for vulnerability. But Hannibal is his safety net. Just like the ocean hadn't swallow them up, this won't either.

"Jusqu'à notre fin," Will whispers. ( _Until our end._ ) "Je suis avec toi." ( _I am with you._ )

Their ending will not be peaceful and happy. It won't be neat and simple. Will's fairly sure disaster will befall them at some point. All great loves seem to be tragic and their lovestory is definitely up there already, but this is the sacrifice they will make together. He’s chosen Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal can tell at once that Will remembers what he's saying. There's a sudden tension around his fingers that has nothing to do with the thrilling way Will's back had arched, as if chasing the curl of Hannibal's touch against his prostate. Hannibal watches as the words register, and while heat and arousal curl low, he cannot deny the fact that his attention is suddenly far more on Will's reaction than anything else. He stills his fingers only for a moment and watches the play of emotion over Will's face. Yet despite that, Hannibal still isn't fully prepared for Will's response. His voice is an intimate whisper, a brush of lips barely felt, and Hannibal's shiver is visceral and sudden. He feels the words curl down low within him, feels them cradle something almost hopeful in gentle hands to soothe it, and when he draws back enough to look down at Will once more, there is a measure of awe in his eyes.

It's not a direct admission. Hannibal doesn't think he'll ever get one, nor does he truly care. Whatever Will is willing to give to him is more than enough for him. He knows what the words mean. He can hear the underlying affection, the need, for why else would one promise to stay with him like this if not for love? Hannibal swallows down a swell of emotion and the kiss he presses to Will's temple is almost reverent. A brief moment of weakness, a held breath in the middle of this moment of intensity.

"And I you, Will," he murmurs back, in English, leaning down to press a trail of soft, lingering kisses over his skin, down to his jaw as he begins to move his fingers again.

Hannibal takes his time to ensure that Will feels as good as he possibly can. He curls his fingers, teasing over Will's prostate in light, teasing presses one moment and then rubbing it firmly the next. With every curl of his fingers comes a slow, rocking thrust, his fingers stretching and spreading slowly, though without haste. He lingers, touching and kissing and sucking every inch of skin that he can reach. By the time he's working a third into Will's body, Will's throat is a measure of marks that will fade over the next hour, simply so they can be applied again later. Hannibal feels almost drunk on the moment, on the tight heat around his fingers, on each roll of Will's hips and every sound he chokes out. Hannibal kisses each of them away as if to save them for his own perusal later, and when he has three fingers slowly stretching and thrusting, Hannibal bends once more to brush a nearly-scraping kiss over Will's lips, raw from everything.

"If you only knew what you do to me, how you test me and my control. It shocks me what I would allow you were you only to ask," he whispers, and his fingers curl again, more insistently this time. "How far I would go for you, my cunning boy. How devastating you look right now. Full and violent with pleasure. A storm on the horizon, aching for what you know you need."

* * *

He's chosen Hannibal. Utterly. Completely. It's a done deal. Until the very end -- whatever end befalls them. They'll be together. Hand in hand. Lights flashing, sirens in the distance, doors breaking down, shouting and weapons pointed at them, they'll still be together... Will can only picture chaos to meet them at their end, turmoil and violence and blood and it's both thrilling and frightening... But maybe this is him assuming that the past will repeat, expecting the worst... Perhaps there is another ending for them, one where they go out quietly, where they simply grow old, but Will knows statistics, Hannibal is older than him, Hannibal would likely die before he did. The idea of being old and _alone_ is horrifying to Will. He'd be left only with memories and a phantom ache of a lover, of a mate now gone.

It's in this moment where Hannibal diligently works him open, his fingers pushing in and curling, Will knows what he will do. If they don't go out in some blaze of glory - if they're not killed - he will eventually take things into his own hands. Neither of them will be without each other. Before old age can claim Hannibal, he'll kill him. And then he'll kill himself. It doesn't need saying. Will knows Hannibal would understand if that time came.

There is no rushing as Hannibal prepares him. Will is sweating, his hands gripping the spindles tightly, enjoying the solidity of the wood, the texture of the grain. Hannibal kisses his face, his chest, anywhere he can reach. Hannibal lets his teeth drag against skin and Will lets himself be as loud as he wants. Every once in while Will jerks his hips up, chasing sensation and unable to be still. He has three fingers pushing inside of him and it borders on too much but not enough. He wants more, his impatience starting to get the best of him, but of course that's when Hannibal chooses to speak up.

 _'It shocks me what I would allow you were you only to ask...'_ Will shudders at the staggering truth contained in that statement and at a particularly pleasurable pass against his prostate, Will almost lets go of the spindles. The words aren't easy to hear. He's long known that Hannibal would go far for him, but now Will is beginning to see that Hannibal is not alone in that sentiment. He grips harder, resolute, knuckles white as he rocks wantonly into Hannibal's fingers.

'-- _A storm on the horizon, aching for what you know you need.'_ Out of habit, Will's mouth is opening to deny that statement -- that he doesn't _need_ it, he simply... Simply what, wants it? Who's he kidding? Maybe he does need it. Maybe he needs anything and everything Hannibal can give him. ( _Closer_. _More_.) His dick is rock hard and it's been barely been touched throughout all of this. Just thinking of where this is going...

"Christ, Hannibal. I think I do-- think I do need it," Will manages. He's antsy and hot, hypersensitive to every touch and desperate for more. "I ached for you. Aching for you right now. Please..."

He does want Hannibal to make love to him, to know every inch of his body, for Hannibal to be inside of him in another way, for them to be connected.

* * *

There is something so achingly perfect in this moment that goes beyond the ability to voice. Each of Will's breaths is a sharp sound, a call of pleasure that matches the intermittent twitches of his hips. He is entirely in his element like this, shame cast aside, concerns secondary. He is present, basking in his need, in the decadence of proper attention, and Hannibal feels almost worshipful as he draws each sound out of Will's throat. Will is a vision, flushed past his chest, skin glistening with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, and muscles twitching and trembling as he fights his urge to take and instead allows Hannibal to give. It takes great self control to keep his task localized, to not lean down and take Will's cock into his mouth, to not touch him. He doesn't want this to end so soon, plus there is a real thrill in each second that Will's hips roll up and Hannibal catches sight of just how aroused he is. Call it sadism or pride, in this moment, they are the same.

Yet Will is not a man used to delayed gratification. Hannibal can see the fissures sliding through him, can see the edge of desperation beginning to lean into the realm of irritation. So while his words are intended to betray his own longing, to put them on equal footing, Hannibal is immediately taken by Will's response. It shoots through him like a physical touch and Hannibal can't help his own groan, his own cock heavy and thick with arousal between his legs. He _wants_ this man, and hearing him beg undoes him so quickly that it's almost frightening. Hannibal's fingers still, his control compromised, and it's only by sheer force of will that he doesn't draw out immediately. Instead he checks to see how relaxed Will truly is, and when he deems it acceptable, Hannibal kisses him.

He kisses him like he _needs_ to. The both of them need this; Hannibal had merely been certain that Will would never admit to it. Until now. Now he knows, he's heard it, and he loses himself briefly in the heat of Will's mouth, in each squirm, every shared breath. He carefully eases his fingers free, rubbing them slow over Will's hole in order to soothe him, but he does break the kiss in order to look over at the drawer to the side-table properly. He's halfway through reaching for it in order to take a condom out when he hears Will's soft sound, something clipped and vaguely stubborn. Hannibal looks at him long enough to see the slight shake of his head and the knowledge tears through him like a blade.

Hannibal's pulse quickens and he tastes anticipation thick in the back of his throat. "Yes, you do need it, don't you?" He asks, and it's not a taunt. It sounds almost reverent. "No condom, then. Soon, Will. Breathe for me," he adds hotly, and props himself up just enough to reach down for the lube again. He finds it pressed up against his own thigh, warmed by his body heat, and Hannibal wastes no time in slicking his hand. He feels nearly dazed as he wraps a hand around his neglected cock, coating it liberally. It's beginning to strike him fully just what Will is allowing him to do, and the reality is so humbling that it's almost destructive. He heeds his own advice, breathing, and then shifts, easing himself over Will's body and gently stroking one of his hands up the line of Will's thigh, encouraging him to lift it enough to wrap around his waist.

"I need you to be open with me, Will. Now more than ever. Tell me if this becomes too much, if it hurts. It should feel intense, should skirt the line between both recognizable pleasure and pain, but it shouldn't _hurt_. If you need to move, you may move your hands. Dig your nails into my skin, hold on tight. Return some of the intensity to me," he breathes, his voice low. Pulse still quick in his throat, Hannibal reaches down to guide his cock in to press against Will's hole. The heat is immediately enough to make Hannibal ache, and the first gentle press has his breath stuttering.

"You needn't ache for me anymore, Will. I'm here. I'll go slowly," Hannibal adds, a final promise before he begins to slowly, achingly press forward into the searing heat of Will's body.

* * *

Even now, a part of him wants to fight this, wants to deny Hannibal something, to not give him _everything._ It reminds Will of how, early on, he thought he would withhold his heart from Hannibal, that he would indulge carnally but not emotionally. For months Hannibal had been patient with him, coaxed him out and won him over. A hard fought battle that Will is still surprised Hannibal managed to do, that Hannibal hadn't given up on him. (How does one say thank-you for such a thing, for the time it took for him to get over himself and accept them? Will doesn't know.)

Will also doesn't know if this is technically begging, if he has ever begged (difficult to recall now), but it's all too obvious how his words hit Hannibal. Hannibal groans, his fingers stopping and Will's mouth is claimed in a searing kiss. He yields to Hannibal's mouth, opening when prompted to and trying to keep up as best as he can. It becomes tricky to manage much finesse when the sensation changes, Hannibal's fingers pulling out, an emptiness left in their wake. Will's about to protest when fingertips rub against him and both the attention and variation are enough to distract him and have him gasp.

Right. Right. For this to continue, Hannibal's fingers will have to cease. Hannibal makes to go for where the condoms are kept and Will is definitely not going to have any of that nonsense. He makes his displeasure known, head tilted up and watching Hannibal carefully. He doesn't use a condom with Hannibal anymore so why should Hannibal? Will wants no more barriers, not even a thin layer of latex.

Hannibal stops. _' **Yes** , you do need it, don't you?'_

They both know it's a resounding yes. Will doesn't answer, he does as Hannibal instructs and breathes. In and out. In and out. And his eyes are glued to Hannibal as he slicks up his cock with lube. Will feels so very present, so on edge, but still safe. (Skirting the cliffside but he won't take them off this time.) His arms ache a little from the strain of the position and how tightly he's holding onto the spindles, but Will doesn't relent. He nods at Hannibal's next set of instructions -- about needing to be honest. Yeah, he can do that.

And then Hannibal is between his spread legs, one hand guiding his dick closer to its destination, closer to him. Will doesn't look away. He doesn't close his eyes when he feels the slick head of Hannibal's cock meet his hole. Will's mouth parts as Hannibal barely presses against him. He takes in a shuddering inhale when Hannibal carefully begins to push, his erection slowly breaching him.

Hannibal, of course, hadn't been lying. It is intense, the stretch is uncomfortable. There's pressure and a strain, but it's also _Hannibal_ and Will forces himself to relax, chanting 'don't clench, don't clench' in his mind. As he's focused on taking it, on not tensing, his filter is pretty much shot so the comment, "fuck, you're big" happens to escape his mouth. Shit. When Will realizes what he's said, he cringes, but doesn't look away.

"Just don't stop." He then lets go of the spindles, his hands coming to hold onto Hannibal's biceps, nails digging in. Will breathes deeply, eyes wide as he gives Hannibal everything he can.

* * *

Will is as prepared as he can be, but Hannibal knows that this will still ache. It is hardly a new experience for him, but he recalls how intense the first time that Will had consented to this had been. He recalls the way he had clung, shy of desperate, and he's expecting the same from Will. So he takes his time, with an unending amount of caution as he begins to press inside. He tries not to let himself think about what this means, for if he dwells on it, he'll surely lose himself, or his control, and at present he needs both in great supply.

Yet despite his wishes, the heat of Will's body is perfect and searing, and the hint of just how perfect a fit he will be is almost maddening. Hannibal's jaw sets as he pushes, his free hand carefully stroking over Will's side, up his chest, serving as an added distraction as he sinks into the tight clench of Will's body. He aches with it, with the control it takes to stay still, and watching the way Will reacts, hearing his low gasp, _seeing_ the effect this has on him is again almost enough to undo him.

The sensation is clearly overwhelming. Hannibal notes the sheen of sweat over Will's skin, watches the way he tries to grip the spindles, and Hannibal wishes in that moment to lean in and kiss the paling skin of Will's knuckles to soothe him. He doesn't. Instead he waits, monitoring Will for any sign of pain, but the heat of his body is almost overwhelming for Hannibal in return. His breathing is rougher, faint tremors of pleasure working their way through him. Will feels _exquisite_ around him and the only moment that Hannibal truly needs to slow is when Will's control over his filter fails enough to blurt out what he does. Hannibal blinks, but his expression almost immediately softens into something fond. Will looks just shy of mortified, but Hannibal merely strokes along his chest, one hand moving up to stroke the hollow of Will's throat before working its way back down in one smooth glide.

"I won't stop. Not unless you require me to."

Will gives up on the spindles then, and when strong hands grip at Hannibal's arms, nails biting into his skin, Hannibal shivers and allows himself a soft, low groan. He presses in further and when the head of his cock finally sinks into Will's tight heat, Hannibal's breath hitches and it takes true effort not to move quicker. Instead he eases himself down, leaning down over Will's body, putting them almost chest to chest so that Will can cling to him harder. He doesn't stop, he doesn't slow. He continues to press in deeper, and after the initial shock of entry, the rest seems easier. Hannibal merely watches Will, his own expression open with pleasure and awe and emotion, but he's careful to monitor every second for pain, even when he can't help but lean in and catch Will's lips in a kiss that's more breathlessness than contact.

"You feel exquisite, Will," Hannibal manages and his voice is rough with pleasure. "Talk to me, _mylimasis._ Tell me how you feel. Is this all right?"

* * *

Instead of smug, Hannibal looks fond in response to his blurted out comment. It's not that Will would have exactly expected a smirked response of some kind, but it's always a possibility knowing Hannibal. The fondness helps smooth out his own embarrassment, as does the reply that Hannibal won't stop. Will doesn't want this to stop. It feels like a pivotal moment of now or never. He's chasing after _more_ and _closer_ and he's almost there -- they’re almost there _._

A history of betrayal, hurt and longing feels like gravity, it holds them down, pushes them closer, skin against skin, hearts beating and so alive. The scream in his head is quieted, or perhaps changed into some other sort of manageable sound now, a low buzz. It's love. Love that cracks open his chest and allows Hannibal to claim dominion there, love that lets Hannibal's hands feel around for the key to unlock him - to unlock everything. Will there be nothing secret and hidden from Hannibal?

No. Not anymore. Will wants to expose it all, to have the shrouds peeled away. For Hannibal to lift back everything, see everything, for Will to be known in every way. His wishes, fears, whims, impulses, desires, shame. And Will knows Hannibal would look, Hannibal would want to touch, taste every part of him and experience and learn and _know._ Will wants that. To be exposed to Hannibal, like he is now, legs spread and the thick head of Hannibal's cock pushing its way inside his body. The burn lessens and Will thinks the worst of it is probably over. (At least he hopes.)

Lips brush against his own, a fleeting touch and Will's muscles are tight with anticipation as Hannibal continues to slowly advance in further. Will's hands rub up and down Hannibal's arms, breathing just as heavy as Hannibal. His words and question have Will blinking to try and focus.

"Vivant," Will replies in a breathless and shaky voice. "Alive... Seen." Will's hips move a little, bearing down with the need to be filled. "Come on give me it," Will pleads. "Give me all of you."

It's overwhelming and taxing on his body, but Will _does_ need. He needs Hannibal to undo him, to take him apart and lovingly put him back together, to survey the sum of his parts and fractures and deem him worthy still.

Will's nails dig into Hannibal's arms again as he repeats his earlier request: "Je veux que tu me fasses l'amour." A beat later, he adds on, "Please." ( _I want you to make love to me._ )

* * *

There had been a time where Hannibal had wondered if Will would ever allow him this, this intimacy, this freedom to see him vulnerable, to _know_ him. He's a vision like this, his skin flushed with heat and slick with sweat, but it is the small details that truly give Hannibal insight. It's the small crease to Will's brow, the tremor in his muscles, the way his lips can't help but part, wet and flushed. It's the way his hips move, the touch of his hands, the varying look in his eyes, cycling from heat to awe and back again. Every single hint - every change in this beautiful man beneath him - speaks to how perfectly vulnerable Will is allowing himself to be. There's no shroud over his eyes, no mask in place. Hannibal can feel the shards of his own crumbling to mix with the shards of Will's mask left shattered on the floor, and he wonders whether they'll piece themselves back together with each other in the end. Once again, Will Graham is unquestionably, irrevocably _changing_ him and Hannibal sinks into the welcoming embrace of Will's body, his need.

Hannibal shakes with the effort to go slowly when everything in him wishes to sink fully into Will's body. It's a sudden promise he'd not expected, a gift that has blindsided him, and he doesn't squander a moment. His own expression is caught with pleasure as he paces himself, and Will can undoubtedly feel the tremor in his arms as he fights to hold himself steady. Every time Will's muscles tighten, Hannibal feels stricken with pleasure. Every deep breath, every sound he makes threatens to undo Hannibal's control.

But when Will finally answers, when he bares himself so beautifully and his hips work to pull Hannibal deeper, Hannibal cannot help his sharper sound, his gasp. He can't help the soft, bitten-out sound that is more curse than anything. And once more, regardless of his own control, in the end, it is Will's voice that undoes him. It's Will's soft plea, impatient at first, and then softer and pleading. It hits him and shakes his foundation, rocking him to his core, and there's nothing proper about the low, shuddering groan that Hannibal lets out as he strokes his hand over Will's face and nods.

"Yes... yes, Will. Breathe deep for me."

He waits only until he feels Will comply and then, while still careful, he does what Will had asked. He leans in, his hand moving away from his cock with no reason to brace it, and he rests on his forearms above Will's body as he slowly sinks into him. He's still careful to watch out for any pain, but this time he still moves. Hannibal sinks in deeply and when his hips finally come to rest against Will's ass, his cock buried deep in the thrilling heat of Will's body, Hannibal looks wrecked with affection and desire. He presses in impossibly deep and leans in, catching Will's lips in a deeper kiss, lewd one moment and then coaxing the next. A shattered moan escapes him, but Hannibal holds himself still, each breath ragged and less put together, but this moment - this intimacy in their connection - is everything to him.

"How... you amaze me, my beautiful boy. How you wreck me down to my core. And oh, how I love you," Hannibal breathes into Will's skin, palm cupping Will's cheek, lips ghosting over the rough stubble on his jaw.

* * *

Will's eyes are wide and seeing. Despite how overwhelming it all feels, he resists closing them. No more hiding, no more shying away. He takes in Hannibal's pleasured expression, the concentration and effort it takes to not plow right in (he knows from experience that it is difficult to hold back). Underneath his hands, he feels muscles straining. He sees the faint traces of perspiration along Hannibal's hairline and Will has the urge to lick it. He wants to trace the lines of sweat all over Hannibal's body, to map him out, feel him again, learn him, but this time with a reverence he's never quite managed before.

Before, it had been more animalistic. All craving. Yearning. Desire. Nails scraping, his mouth taking, his hips fucking. Not always, no, but often enough... It had been wild, it had been Hannibal accepting a certain angle of him and marveling at it. It had been sharing whispered threats of violence, it had been heat and passion and Will lashing out in a different way and Hannibal letting him, letting the fire grow all the while Hannibal basked in the heat.

This is something different. This is akin to worship almost and Will needs to feel it more, needs to feel everything, so he says what he says, and does what he does. And the sound that Hannibal makes is sinful, and the promise that Hannibal will oblige him, Will is shaking from the build up of anticipation and the singular unique feeling of Hannibal knowing him in this very visceral way. He breathes deeply and Hannibal leans in over him, sliding in further, deeper, opening him fully and completely. Will is gasping at the sensation. It borders on pain, but it's mostly heat and pressure and intensity. God, it's so intense. He resists the urge to squirm and feel it in different ways. Their eyes take in each other, there's only desire and fucking _love_ there.

Will kisses back, lips moving in desperation, hands stroking up Hannibal's neck and back into his hair. He doesn't grip tight, he just feels the somewhat sweaty strands and the aching sensation of being filled by Hannibal and connected in this new consuming way. Hannibal is a comfortable weight on top of him, familiar, and Will feels safe under him.

_'How you wreck me down to my core. And oh, how I love you.'_

And there it is, that familiar twinge, that pang of a hurt that feels good. The truth that won't be hidden and swept under a rug.

"I'm wrecked too," Will murmurs and he pushes his jaw into the soft kisses Hannibal is placing along his stubble. Hannibal kisses him open with a tenderness that seems so in contrast with the knowledge that inside that mouth are teeth that have ripped a man's throat open. (But Will's teeth have also torn flesh...) Will can no longer remain still and he moves his hips a little to test the sensation of being filled.

"We're... we're both wrecked and I don't mind it one bit and..." His voice drops, Will's eyes are fierce. "I'll learn to love the way I learned to fear. Slow. Exhaustive. Deep. You'll teach me, Hannibal."

* * *

Once upon a time Hannibal's words might have been too much. He might have drawn nothing but fear and resentment from Will's chest, might have made him recoil in fear or disgust. But as he feels the hot clench of muscle around him and feels the way Will's fingers slide over his skin before winding so sweetly and desperately into his hair, he knows that those days have passed. Perhaps Will might relapse at some point. Perhaps he might question, but not now. Not in this breathless moment of intimacy. Not with desperate hands and staccato breaths. Not with need and desire and Will's eyes wide in intensely pleasured awe.

It is immediately too much and yet not nearly enough. It's the sensation of being torn open but soothed. Hannibal feels as if nothing could feel sweeter than this, than Will finally allowing him this intimacy and not only allowing it but also craving it. His own breathing is ragged, his expression wrecked with need as he fights to keep his hips still. Yet Will gives him the opportunity to expend some of his energy; he presses into each of Hannibal's kisses and Hannibal's low groan is almost carved out of him as Will's breathless response comes. They are both wrecked, both eternally changed, and Hannibal cannot quite quantify the extent of his emotions in this moment.

His world has narrowed its focus in on the man underneath him. He sees Will's skin, his hair, how beautifully blown his eyes are, how sweetly red his lips are, how the scratch of stubble denotes him as painfully masculine but parts of him are still impossibly delicate. And just as Hannibal begins to look, begins to memorize every aspect of Will in this moment, Will's hips roll and his voice rises once more and Hannibal freezes, captivated by what he says and how he feels.

The breath leaves him on a soft, punched-out sound as his cock drags over Will's skin, as he feels Will's muscles clench around him, and feels the wet-silk feeling of him wrapped so perfectly around his cock. But beyond the physical is what Will says, and the words... the _words_ are what truly slide in to wreck him. A violent slide of heat curls so effortlessly through Hannibal that he feels cold with it, his breath catching, his gaze awed.

" _Yes_ ," he manages on his next breath, the sound all but carved out of him. "Yes, I will teach you."

There's a part of him that knows that what is said during sex might not be accurate, but this is so much more than just sex. This is rebirth and discovery, is allowance and trust. Will is giving him more than his body. Will is giving him _everything_ (and in the back of his mind, Hannibal is aware that he owes Will the same, that there is much they will need to discuss in the coming months, and it's as thrilling as it is terrifying). But for now, in that single split moment as Will hisses his promises, Hannibal bends down and his teeth catch on the scar at Will's throat, his breath hot over it. This is the most that Will has ever given him. He doesn't intend to squander this.

"Are you all right? Tell me when you need me to move. I'll not hurt you."

* * *

Fear. Will still has a great amount of it. It can motivate him and hold him back at other times. It's pushed down, repressed and then it can spring forth. Will fears himself. His own mind. His imagination. His desires. His impulses. His failures. There's fear of the future. Fear of his future failures. Fear for the ones that Hannibal _could_ kill (Alana, Jack). Fear for the ones Hannibal likely _won't_ kill (Molly, Walter).

But there isn't a fear of Hannibal's love. Of Hannibal ever _not_ loving him, no. That's ingrained in his fucking bones, on the chambers of his very heart: Hannibal Lecter loves him.

Slow. Exhaustive. Deep. Will had picked these words for a reason. He hadn't been born fearful. He hadn't been born distrustful of himself and often conflicted. He'd learned little by little that he was different, that he had his own unique difficulties that first set him apart from the other children his age and then later adults too. However, the special adapt. They harden and become more guarded. They gradually accept their loneliness, that it often is easier to not try and seek out connections and understanding. Will understood others, but he hadn't had as much luck with it being reciprocated. Until Hannibal.

So as a lover, he wraps his truth up and gifts it to Hannibal. Perhaps others intrinsically know how to love and be loved, perhaps it's just from their own twisted history that Will has been reluctant -- he doesn't exactly know, but he hadn't been lying. Hannibal will teach him. (To love. To fight. To kill. To thrive.) Will sees the awe in his partner's eye and he gives a small smile as Hannibal replies. He knows it's a promise. Teeth graze the bite-scar at his neck and Will whines, his fingers now pulling at Hannibal's hair.

"I'm good. It's good, baby," Will murmurs and, feeling adventurous, he wraps his legs around Hannibal which only serves to jostle the dick inside of him and it's still fucking intense and bordering on too much, but as usual, Will only wants more.

"Move. I want to feel it. Want to feel _you_."

* * *

How beautiful this man is, spread out for Hannibal's gaze like a feast. His body is so hot within and it's a sensation that Hannibal had almost forgotten in the long years locked away. Yet this is more intense than he's had before. This is not a simple affair. The body around him doesn't belong to Alana or any others he had ever coaxed into his bed. This is not a conquest or an attempt to appear normal, to blend into society by pulling certain strings. This is so, so much more. For this is something that Hannibal had never truly believed he would be allowed. This is Will Graham - his heat, his proximity, his tight, gripping body, his hands clutching and legs slowly winding around Hannibal's hips. This is intensity on another level, Will's legs tightening and drawing him in that much deeper, punching a rough sound from Hannibal's throat. This is Will accepting and needing, drawing him in deeper, gifting Hannibal with his intimacy, with the thrilling feeling of Will's legs settling around him like this is where they belong.

Hannibal's breath is hot against Will's throat, his lips parted, eyes half closed at the intensity. He breathes hotly against Will's skin, tasting his scar, keeping his lips pressed loosely to it as the desire to sink permanently into this moment begins to take over. It wars with the desire for more, the desire to hear Will's voice raised so sweetly, the desire to give him pleasure before Hannibal even thinks of finding his own. It should be terrifying, the things Hannibal would do for this man, but right now he knows that pleasure and intimacy is what Will needs.

The pet name is sudden and welcome, sending heat through Hannibal's skin and a groan rumbling from his throat. It's still a wonder that he enjoys it, that he craves the sound of that word falling from Will's lips. So common and yet special from him. Hannibal shivers, breathless, but when Will moves his hips, the sensation is enough to make Hannibal press his teeth to Will's scar, as if biting back a groan.

"I've got you," Hannibal promises roughly. "Breathe for me. Tell me if it becomes too much."

He doesn't snap his hips, doesn't fuck into the willing body beneath him. Instead Hannibal slides one hand down to Will's hip and helps him to support himself. He inches closer, getting his knees under Will enough so that Will doesn't need to struggle to maintain his position. It brings them closer, presses his cock that much harder against Will's sensitive spot, and then Hannibal draws back enough just to withdraw a few inches before he rolls his hips slowly, less a thrust and more a slow, careful grind. Though given where he knows his cock is pressed with this new angle, Hannibal aims for as little pain as possible when he presses soft kisses to Will's throat.

* * *

Months ago, in the shower, Will had asked Hannibal if he had been an attentive lover to Alana. He'd then gone on to state that Hannibal had been a liar and not a lover. He'd asserted that he alone knew what Hannibal wanted and could give it to him. Bold and brash, so typical of him. Hannibal had effortlessly got him to express his jealousy with Will blurting out: ' _You_ _still fucked her when you haven't even fucked me yet.'_ Of course, he had came quickly after that, thinking about spreading his legs, how he had known the feel of a blade, a bullet, and soon would know--

Fuck. He's here now. They both are. Together, connected, heat and sweat and love; they're here on their bed and his legs are wrapped around Hannibal and Hannibal's weight is on top of him, his mouth on his throat and cock buried in deep. It's overwhelming and so fucking real. Pure in a way, like killing those he deemed worthy to die. (But there's no killing right now, there's just them, their skin, their hands, their hearts...)

Will doesn't even realize the 'baby' that he's slipped in. He's had months since he first used the term of endearment to try and possibly stop and he hasn't dropped it. It's not something they've talked about. It's not something they need to talk about. Hannibal accepts it, but more than that Hannibal likes it. Will knows. So Will breathes for him, he tries to prepare for the onslaught of sensation. Hannibal shifts, altering their position and it's enough for Will to give a sharp gasp. And then Hannibal is finally moving -- but barely. It is more of a grind and Will is left shaking from the sensitive nudge to his prostate.

Until now, he's only had Hannibal's fingers inside touching him here. This is far more intense. An aching fullness, an undercurrent of tension and hurt, but Hannibal's heat and body are familiar. Hannibal's mouth at his scar... It's divine. He's got the urge to rush Hannibal, to beg if he must, but Will just rocks into Hannibal, selfish and giving all at the same time.

"God, fuck," he moans and his eyes slip closed, his fingers pulling on Hannibal's hair. Will takes in shuddering breaths. It's so very different to be vulnerable like this, to be at Hannibal's mercy, but it's also terribly arousing. He feels an antsy need for more, but he bites on his lip and just humps up into Hannibal and squirms to show his enthusiasm. A moment later he's moaning, his hands smoothing down Hannibal's neck as Will tries to curl his head to Hannibal's chest and hide. His hands claw at Hannibal's back.

"Please, please." He doesn't know what he's exactly asking for, but the words are whined out anyway.

* * *

In the secret rooms in his mind where Hannibal had allowed himself to imagine this scenario freely, he had pictured Will gripping at him, had pictured soft and slow and Will's voice crying out like the counterpoint to the most beautiful harmony imaginable. In his mind, he'd taken his time, had taken Will apart, had known him and felt him, and left Will mindless with pleasure. But now that this is no longer a fantasy - now that this is reality - Hannibal is quickly realizing that this situation is so much _more_. Will's sounds may be harmonic and beautiful to his ears, but his skin is slick with sweat and warmth, his nails biting, each punch of breath against Hannibal's skin enough to make him ache. Hannibal feels dizzy with every imperfect reminder that this is not the soft fantasy in his mind, but the visceral reality of having Will Graham under him, around him, welcoming him so deeply into his body. This is intensity and need, desire hot and thick under their skin, breaths ragged with need and pleasure instead of convergence.

Somehow it is so fitting that Will has changed him so completely. Instead of mourning the romance of his fantasy, Hannibal finds more of it here, in the whined plea of Will's voice, in the desperate, inelegant way that Will's body presses to his, chasing a pleasure he's never needed before and failing. Will's movements are clipped and short, driven by pure desperation, and despite the pleasure, despite the way each twitch has Hannibal's body aching with need, he wishes only to soothe and praise, to carve accolades into Will's skin with his teeth and his nails. He lets Will squirm, lets him settle, for every second is more proof that Will can handle more than the simple grind that Hannibal had started with. And when Will curls in enough to hide against his chest, when his nails claw and dig in with perfect sharpness, Hannibal cannot properly contain his groan. He shivers and twitches and the kiss he presses to Will's skin is a promise.

"I know. I know, Will," Hannibal breathes, and - mindful to keep the angle where it is (for is there anything more thrilling than seeing the way Will convulses and whines in pleasure?) - Hannibal presses him back to the bed and finally relents. The first thrust is barely more than a slow roll of his hips, more to spread the lube and make sure Will is comfortable enough. The second is just as careful but a little quicker, and the third is sure. He doesn't snap his hips, doesn't focus entirely on the physical. Instead Hannibal moves with the aim to take Will apart, one of his arms bracing himself above Will while the other hand strokes over his skin with broad, sweeping touches aimed to almost be too much to focus on. Hannibal's voice catches on the softest of groans as he pushes, as his hips move, as his lips press hotly to Will's skin and his teeth scrape pink marks over the beautiful column of his throat. Hannibal shivers, rolling his shoulders into Will's touch in encouragement as he mouths hotly at Will's throat, along his jaw, under his ear, breathless with pleasure and amazement that Will is allowing this.

"So achingly beautiful for me. Use your nails. Your teeth. Whatever you _need_ , I wish you to tell me, or show me."

* * *

Sure, Will has thought of this very thing happening, of when and how he'd reciprocate and give it up (only fair, only inevitable). But they had been fleeting thoughts, a streak across his imagination, nearly always fantasized alone while in the safety of the shower, his hand moving over his dick at his own pace and no consequences, no reality following. None of it compared, none of it had come close to _this_. Nothing could prepare himself for this, not even the experience of being on the reverse.

He knows how amazing it feels to be pressing into Hannibal, the scorching heat and tightness enveloping his cock and pulling him in further, deeper. God, but now _he_ knows how it feels to be pushed into and felt _entirely_. And he's fucking vulnerable like this, with his legs spread and wrapped around Hannibal, with him all but clinging onto Hannibal. He's trusting Hannibal with this delicate task. Hannibal has cut into him, carved his abdomen open, begun on his head but also managed to get into his heart, so why not this too?

So, Will shakes and closes his eyes tightly and his nails dig into Hannibal's shoulders. He barely hears the groan Hannibal gives in response to his own words, but he does hear Hannibal acknowledging his... distress? His begging? Will doesn't know if he wants to know what he's doing, what's coming out of his mouth. But then Hannibal _finally_ begins to move and it's intense, the change exactly what Will needs. Will is left gasping, the uncomfortable ache and too-much feeling burning into something new and equally intense. Each additional touch barely registers, but it still adds on small layers of sensation to the overarching steady thrusts. Hannibal's hand, his mouth -- it all feels good. Will curses, he claws down Hannibal's shoulders. His legs have started to cramp a little from tensing, but Will isn't about to complain about it.

"Fuck, Hannibal," Will cries out, his toes curling. He doesn't understand how he's still so hard, but he is. A part of him had been uncertain if he'd be able to stay aroused the entire time, but now it feels like he could come far too quickly, just a few strokes to his cock and he'd be coming all over himself. It's difficult to stay still. It's difficult for the pace to be steady and somewhat slow, but he doesn't want to be demanding about this. Not here.

"Bite me?" Will blurts out instead. "Please, Christ. I-I don't know." He's panting and he blinks his eyes open. He feels strung out; it's simultaneously not enough and too much.

* * *

There is so much that Hannibal wishes to do in that moment, so much that he would allow Will were he to only ask. There's a budding explosion of desire within that has nothing to do with orgasm, a visceral need to indulge in a very specific form of gluttony now that it's been allowed to him. Yet Hannibal's desire is tempered by his care, by his love for this beautiful, shattered creature. He could push, could demand more, could flip Will onto his stomach and take him roughly, could bite him to bleeding, could push until he begs, could repeat many of the same things that Will has done to him over the last few months, both gentle and rough, but he doesn't. Instead he controls his own desire to push, to greedily covet every aching sound that falls from Will's throat. As his hips rock, slow but deep, Hannibal finds an angle that makes Will squirm and he contents himself with their newfound intimacy and delights in the way Will shakes so perfectly under him.

The bite of Will's nails is sudden and sharp and Hannibal knows instinctively that he will have welts later, if not outright blood beading along his skin. Instead of making him hiss and flinch away, Hannibal only chases it, only encourages it more, arching into the press of Will's nails, gasping low and hot against Will's throat as he thrusts into Will's perfect heat a little quicker than he'd intended. It's only once, but he can feel the resulting tension in Will's body, can feel the way he spasms, and the cry that falls from Will's lips is one that Hannibal wishes he could bottle to sample later. He groans, rough, mouthing hotly at Will's throat as he moves. His steady, slow thrusts speed just enough to compensate for Will's desire (and, guiltily, to increase his own, for _finally_ being buried so deep - being allowed this intimacy - feels like it's shaking him to his core) and when Will makes his request, a beautiful desperation carving through his voice, Hannibal doesn't need to be told again.

" _Yes, mylimasis_ ," Hannibal promises, breathless, but before he leans in to do as Will had asked, Hannibal reaches his free arm down. He can feel the trembling in Will's thighs, knows the strain this is undoubtedly taking, and so he makes a point to hook one arm under one of Will's legs, letting Will's knee rest over the crook of his elbow to offer support and a slightly different angle. It means Will's legs spread wider, means there's a little less accidental friction between them, where Will's cock is red and needy, but Hannibal makes up for it with the slight change of angle and the greater freedom of movement. He leans in, mouthing hotly at Will's throat, and without further fanfare, he lets out a rougher, needier sound and his teeth close sharply over Will's skin, biting just shy of the pre-existing scar. He's careful to only bite as hard as Will directs him to, but being so close to the pounding of Will's pulse is thrilling. Hannibal breathes through his nose, louder, perhaps needier as well, and while he _is_ careful not to push too hard, he cannot help the slightly sharper thrust that follows, fueled by desire for this perfectly flawed man.

* * *

There's really no question in Will's mind that Hannibal will oblige him. Will may be the one spreading his legs right now, may be open and being thrust into, but Hannibal is wrapped around his finger in many, many ways. Hannibal has proven it time and time again. It's something that Will could feel smug and powerful over (he has before). It's something he's fucking tested too. After a duplicitous act, Hannibal had still been there for him (and a man had been killed in the process). After Will had tried to end them - to kill Hannibal - Hannibal had still stayed by his side and nursed him to health. Hannibal had fucking kneeled in the kitchen for him despite not wanting to, despite it not being appropriate...

So Hannibal _will_ bite him. Will doesn't have to wait before Hannibal agrees to it either, but first Hannibal adjusts their position (because of course Hannibal would know that his legs have begun to cramp). And then Hannibal is leaning closer and Will is tipping his head back to allow Hannibal to bite at his neck (because Will knows that's what he wants). The sound that Hannibal makes before he bites goes straight to Will's cock, but before he can try and discern what exactly is so hot about the sound, teeth meet his skin and Will jerks in response, thrill and arousal and anticipation skyrocketing.

Pain bursts forth. It's obviously not the worst Hannibal has done to him biting-wise (his inner thigh had been) but it's still hurts. Before Will can even process the sensation, Hannibal thrusts harder. Will shakes, moaning at the intensity as his hands are momentarily confused as to what they should do. They first ball into fists before relaxing again to scratch down Hannibal's back.

"Fuck, christ," Will gasps out inelegantly. He can't help but think of Hannibal biting into the Red Dragon's neck and tearing flesh. He knows Hannibal could do it to him, but won't. Hannibal would never. Will's hips move as best they can to meet Hannibal's thrusts but he's too distracted to match the rhythm with any success.

"When you- when you looked at me after we killed him," Will is all but stammering his thoughts out as the pressure persists at his neck and Hannibal's movements don't halt. "--first time I ever felt completely _seen_." Will's eyes slip shut, remembering the moment. The sheer gravity of it, the thudding of the waves, the pounding of his heart, Hannibal freely bleeding but offering him a hand up and Hannibal had been both tender and fierce. Will had all but clung onto Hannibal and Will remembers the sigh of relief Hannibal had given.

"Bite me more, everywhere. Leave your mark. You have me."

* * *

Will's mind is a loud howl of images superimposed upon his reality, but Hannibal is the opposite. As he feels the resistance of Will's skin between his teeth, the pounding of Will's pulse, the dimples of his old scar, and tastes the sweat of his skin, Hannibal cannot reside anywhere but in the moment. He feels tethered to this man, bound to him on a subatomic level, like Will Graham has seeped beneath his skin, changing him irrevocably. The first time Will had asked to be bitten, it had been out of a need to shock, not a need for closeness like this. That Will wants this is nothing short of humbling, and as Hannibal bites, he feels almost dizzy with the sound Will makes. The bite has to hurt and yet Will doesn't lurch away. Instead Hannibal feels the sudden claw of Will's nails and he arches his back into the feeling.

Perhaps Will's utterances are inelegant, but he doesn't love this man for his elegance. He loves him for his honesty, his recklessness, and everything in between. And as Hannibal's hips snap in harder by mistake and Will's voice rises in a gasp, Hannibal hesitates only for a moment before deciding that it's a sound he wants to draw out again. While he's careful not to thrust to the point of pain, he does press Will back against the bed. Within mere moments he has a rhythm even if Will can't quite follow it. Hannibal doesn't blame him; Will has no reference for how to move his body like this. Hannibal silently delights at the gift it will be to teach him properly, and when he thrusts, it's with deep, slightly harder thrusts aimed to _feel_. He's careful not to bite too hard and it takes effort to control his own pleasure, but this moment is perfect enough for him to ache for it to last. It won't. Hannibal can hear the desperation in Will's gasps, and when Will throws his head back and begins to speak, Hannibal's thrusts almost falter.

It's akin to lovers whispering a shared secret. Will's voice is hot and honest and Hannibal shivers with it. He can recall the moments on the bluff, the feeling of Will's body pressed so close, his blood hot and his skin cooling in the cold air, Will's head nestled so perfectly against him as he'd clung. Had they died that night, even now, Hannibal feels that _that_ would have been the moment he'd chosen to live in for all eternity. Now, given this moment, given everything that has happened since, he's not so sure. His voice catches instead, and when he grips under Will's leg, it's enough to hold him secure. He releases the bite only for a moment, just long enough to whisper exultation into his skin. "You and I both, Will," he says, and his voice is low and hot with everything.

"You were beautiful then, bathed in blood. _Yourself_ for the first time, your wings drying under the light of the moon. But that pales to how you look to me now." Hannibal rolls his hips then, a slow grind to intersperse within the thrusts, and his teeth catch temptingly on the roughness of Will's jaw. "I will always find you radiant, but like this... now more than ever. I have you," Hannibal adds, because he does. He bites again, higher on Will's throat, and then again along the line of his clavicle, sharp, clearly not comfortable, and yet how could he do anything different?

* * *

When their positions had been reversed, Will had murmured _je t'ai_ in French to Hannibal. (I have you.) Hannibal had been on his forearms and knees, a makeshift collar and leash fashioned from a belt around his neck. Will had fucked him hard and unrelenting. Their first time in that position and the first time without a condom. It had been rough and real. He had been honest and coarse. Will had threatened that he would kill anyone who dared to hurt Hannibal (still true). He'd been possessive. Obsessive. Animalistic in his fucking.

This is something else entirely. This is falling and knowing there is only safety waiting for him at the bottom. They won’t be plunging into cold, treacherous waters anymore. Hannibal has him - will always have him. So Will gives in, he lets himself be felt and known and _seen_. He shakes with the intensity of the pleasure, sensitivity and pain all curling together. The uncomfortable ache is now merely another layer to it all. Hearing and believing that Hannibal would prefer him _now_ to when he'd been on the bluff, high on violence and covered in blood...

Yes. He can be vulnerable. He can be desperate and open. He can be loud. He can squirm. He can be rough. He can be soft. He can still be good. He can still want to do bad things to bad people. He can love and be loved. Hannibal can kill and save. Will lets the memories fade - no moonlight embrace, no rough fucking while holding the belt - he lets the past settle comfortably in his mind and trades it for the present. Hannibal's teeth bite, his hips thrust and Will basks in the sheer intensity of it all.

"God, please, please touch me..." He begs, more unashamed of the need present in his voice. Will feels a growing sense of desperation. He wants to get off. He wants to come while Hannibal fucks him, while Hannibal bites him. He wants it, wants it, wants it.

* * *

As thrilling as it is to him to think about Will reflecting upon their dance with the Dragon that night, Hannibal doesn't want him months away right now. He wants Will here, present, clutching him close, caught by pleasure and need, present in every way. At first he knows Will is somewhere else and his movements slow to a grind, aimed to please but nothing more. It takes very little coaxing for Will to come back to him, but Hannibal sees it happen. He sees the way Will's desperate tension begins to ease, feels the way his muscles relax underneath him - around him. He coaxes Will back to the present, with him, and he can tell the moment it happens. Will's sounds are a little louder, his movements a little quicker. Hannibal can feel the need in every movement and it makes him ache to kiss Will breathless, to focus on Will's pleasure entirely, for Hannibal had never believed that Will might allow this someday. This is not what he'd expected and it's all the sweeter for it.

So when Will returns to him and begins to breathe a little rougher, need suffusing each sound he makes, Hannibal is right there with him. He coaxes Will to hold onto him harder by rolling his shoulders against the bite of his nails, and he rewards Will's return with pleasure, finding the pace that had left him gasping only moments before and resuming it. Hannibal's own breathing is rougher, his need clear as he chases not only his pleasure, but Will's. So hearing Will suddenly speak, hearing him ask, hearing him _beg_ twists through Hannibal's control like a knife. His next breath is more gasp than control and there's no part of him that wishes to deny Will now. Shifting close enough so that Will's legs won't need to be strained again, Hannibal reluctantly lets his leg go so that he has a hand free to brace himself. He could lean back, could take Will like that, but he doesn't. There's no part of him that wishes to draw back even slightly.

"Wrap your legs around me, _mylimasis_ ," Hannibal breathes roughly, thrusting harder and deeper, but slow as he gets one of his hands free. He reaches down between them and finds Will's cock. One touch is all he needs to feel the wetness of Will's precome, to know how close he must be getting already. It's all the encouragement he needs before he's wrapping his hand around silken flesh and stroking. He doesn't lose pace, doesn't stop pressing kisses and bites to Will's throat, and his hand moves quick, no longer coaxing and suggesting, but _insisting_ that Will come.

"Breathe deep for me, Will. Let yourself feel it, and when it's there, do not hold back. I want to see you fall apart for me, beloved. I want to remember it. To see it every time I close my eyes."

* * *

This isn't at all how Will had believed this night would go. It was just supposed to be a date. Will had gotten dressed up in the bespoke suit Hannibal had bought and more or less designed specifically _for_ him. He was going to go the fucking opera. With Hannibal. As Hannibal's _date_. Will thinks he would have even held Hannibal's hand. Or his arm - because why not? They would have looked striking. They would have looked _good_. It would have been strange to be doing something so damn normal. A date night with Hannibal Lecter. They'd been close, until coming across the accident and then Hannibal had jumped into action.

Because of him? For him? Did it really matter?

They're here now and despite Will's desire to do something for Hannibal, to make the grand gesture of going on a date and doing something Hannibal would enjoy, he isn't too broken up about their change of plans. This is something he's never had before. This is more than fucking or sex. Will knows it and Hannibal knows it. They both fucking _feel_ it. It's in every controlled thrust Hannibal gives, every assuring touch, every affectionate kiss. Will luxuriates in them all, he basks in Hannibal's love as if it was the only source of light in a dark night. It's warm like blood, like life, and Will feels so alive, each sensation heightened and overwhelming and grounding. He's alive, he's here, Hannibal has him.

He listens to Hannibal, legs wrapping around Hannibal and pulling him in closer. Soon enough Hannibal is reaching a hand in between them and wrapping it around his dick. Will jolts from the the sheer relief of having something familiar and strictly pleasurable. Hannibal's hand is not slow nor are his thrusts. Will shakes and his eyes are tightly shut as he takes it and lets the intensity grow. Underneath Hannibal, he can let himself fall apart - he can do what Hannibal has asked. Will is noisy, but he barely registers the gasps and whines he's making. They stop when he orgasms. His mouth is simply open when bliss burns through him like a wildfire. Will comes over Hannibal's hand, his own hips giving aborted little thrusts as his body tenses.

It's only at last moment that he remembers he'll need to give Hannibal permission to come too and Will grits out, "come-come in me."

* * *

Will's sounds rise in volume and Hannibal knows immediately that - beyond being close to coming - Will has finally let himself have this. There's no shame in each sound, no awkward attempt to keep himself quiet, no self-consciousness or uncertainty. Instead Hannibal feels the bite of Will's nails against his skin. He feels the pinch of Will's legs around his waist, Will's muscles strong. With the added tension in his muscles, Hannibal can _feel_ it around his cock as well, but his own pleasure seems so secondary in that moment. He knows his pleasure; there are few surprises remaining, but seeing Will like this, seeing him so open and awash and free in his own pleasure is nothing short of exhilarating. Hannibal's mindless of his own breathing, the soft, breathless sounds he's making as well. Everything he is has focused in on Will Graham, on the tight clench of muscles around his cock, the scratch of Will's nails against his shoulders, the sound of Will's gasps and whines ringing in his ears. He feels Will's need, feels his desperation, and as Will's filter breaks, as his breathing quickens and Hannibal feels the first deep twitches of Will's orgasm building, he leans in to press his lips to Will's throat. His hips still thrust, his hand still strokes, and he whispers reverent words of his care - of his love - against Will's skin.

When Will comes, it's soundless. Perhaps he's silent, but there is no other part of him that doesn't signal the pleasure he's in to Hannibal. He feels Will tense, feels the twitching clench around his own cock, and Hannibal groans low against Will's skin, drawing back just enough to see Will's blissful expression as he coaxes Will through his pleasure. Hannibal feels the heat of Will's come over his hand and he rides out each desperate twitch of Will's hips, keeping pace, furthering his pleasure until he feels ragged with the urge to follow Will into his bliss. It's only by a thin margin that Hannibal holds back, distantly remembering Will's command from all those months ago. Never before has it felt so difficult, for this is more than merely sex. This is a culmination of _everything_.

So when Will gasps out his command, half-delirious with his own pleasure, Hannibal is neither expecting it nor is he able to deny himself. A deep, visceral shudder carves its way through him and Hannibal presses in close. He nudges Will's hips up, curls his free arm under Will's back, and he snaps his hips forward less than half a dozen times more before pleasure slices through him. Hannibal's gasp is sharp and just shy of feral, his teeth gritted in a faint snarl as he buries himself one last time in Will's body and then comes. His cock pulses and twitches as he does as he'd been told, coming inside of Will, feeling every second of this pleasure, so much more intense merely because of what Will has allowed him. Hannibal shakes, muscles tense, his eyes stinging faintly with emotion he is not ashamed to show, and he rides out every intense wave of pleasure with hissed utterances of Will's name, like they're a prayer.

* * *

It's more than sexual gratification. More than heat and bliss and a culmination of pleasure. It's the way his body aches and sings from everything Hannibal has done (everything Will has _asked_ for). It's burning and consuming and all stained in love. A fucking undeniable love. Right now, Will can't fathom why he fought so hard, why he tried to keep his heart from Hannibal. It's all he wants now. He wants to be known, to be seen and felt and heard and understood. The vulnerability can't be denied because there's always a chance to be hurt. Hannibal is only human and they both make mistakes. There's no going back from this, but Will doesn't want to take it back, anyway. This is his second chance at life. A life with Hannibal Lecter, and maybe it's not fair or just that they get one. Maybe it's not _right_ , but Will is going to be selfish and latch onto it. He's going to fiercely fight to thrive together with Hannibal. He doesn't want to hold himself back anymore. He wants it all. He hadn't died on Hannibal's kitchen floor. They hadn't died after they had plummeted into the ocean.

Hannibal listens to him again. Obliges him again. Forceful thrusts follow and Will cries out as his pleasure quickly bleeds into over-sensitivity, but he doesn't push Hannibal away. He doesn't ask for it to stop. Will takes it, groaning weakly. He wants Hannibal to find completion too. He wants Hannibal to claim him in this. Skin sliding against skin, hands grasping firmly, nails digging and leaving crescents - it's all a visceral experience, another blade but this time it's going deeper than mere flesh. It's death and rebirth and Will is as present as he can be in this frenzied moment they're creating, paint thrown on a white canvas, brushes erratic - not the way Hannibal would normally prefer - but it's passion.

It's them.

And then Hannibal comes, body shaking and Will holds on tighter with his arms and legs. There's a rush of wetness inside him and he hears Hannibal repeat his name like a mantra; Will thinks Hannibal sounds as wrecked as he feels, both of them out of their element, splayed open, but wholly _together_ in this moment. Will breathes deeply, panting, his fingers uncurling and instead now rubbing along Hannibal's shoulders, soothing and grounding himself.

Sweat. Heat. Skin. Life. Love. It's as close to perfection as Will thinks he's ever known.

"Nous avons... l'un l'autre," Will murmurs, breathless. ( _We have each other._ ) It's the only significant truth ingrained in him. A sustaining truth. It's etched into his bones and running through his veins. He loves Hannibal and Hannibal loves him. They have each other.

"Nous avons l'un l'autre," Will repeats because it feels good to say.

* * *

Something has changed. Hannibal cannot dictate the moment the change had occurred, but it's as obvious as a new layer on their foundation. Uneven and rocky has evened out into smooth. While Hannibal can still sense Will's jagged edges, the sharpness of them has been tempered. Perhaps Will Graham is still a blade to the world, but his sharpness is no longer directly pointed at Hannibal. Not now. Not in this moment.

He can't decide when the change had happened. Perhaps it had been the moment that Will had asked to be more dominant, the moment Hannibal had submitted to him with the understanding that he did so out of respect for Will. Maybe it had been the moment Hannibal had denied Will his submission, punishment for Will's behavior. Yet as Hannibal lays there, Will's body clutched almost painfully against his own, their breathing ragged and filled with a beautiful mutual need, Hannibal suspects that it had been _this_ night that had changed things.

Will's desire to do something for him, the accident, Will seeing him in a new light, their _conversation_ , Will's shattered, breathless desire to still do good and Hannibal's fervent promises, his words a low hiss aimed to slake gloriously mutual hunger... and now this. Will has allowed him so much in the last few hours, and as Hannibal shudders and groans the pinnacle of his pleasure in against the heat of Will's skin, he knows it will never be enough. His hunger for this man will never be satisfied. He will never learn enough, experience enough, or _feel_ enough to stop wanting everything from this beautiful creature. And Hannibal is beginning to let himself hope that it is mutual.

For despite Will's clear over-sensitivity, despite the edge his sounds take, the clear discomfort he has to be feeling from each of Hannibal's thrusts being so sharp in those last few seconds, Will only clutches him closer. Hannibal knows his back will be indented with cuts in the shape of Will's nails, knows his sides and hips will be bruised from the force of Will's grip, and yet Will takes it all. He doesn't recoil, doesn't hiss and ask Hannibal to stop, doesn't shove him away. Instead he clutches close and lets Hannibal's pleasure happen. He appears to almost bask in it, and the realization leaves Hannibal feeling dizzy; the idea that Will might crave his pleasure the way Hannibal craves Will's is humbling.

When pleasure's sharp edge recedes enough for Hannibal to breathe, he is very careful to not collapse forward onto Will. Instead he takes great care to slow the strokes to Will's cock, each movement languid and careful as he finally stops and slides his hand away. It's covered in Will's come. Breathing heavily, Hannibal braces himself on both arms but allows the tension in his body to ease, and when Will speaks, just as breathless, Hannibal basks in the words. They're true.

He leans in just a little closer, and when Will's lips move again, repeating the words from before, Hannibal kisses them from Will's lips. It's nothing more than a slide of lips at first, interspersed with rougher breaths from the both of them, but Hannibal kisses him again. Then again. He doesn't stop, and they both catch their breath with each other, breathing the other in, each kiss hotter and reverent. Hannibal's clean hand moves up to curl in Will's hair, and yet he does nothing but draw Will in closer, pressing their foreheads together in this striking moment of intimacy.

"I love you," he whispers unprompted, daring to speak the words aloud despite how underwhelming they seem compared to the depth of emotion he feels for this man. "My dear Will."


	5. Steadfast/Vulnerable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's his own drug and Hannibal is both his drug and his dealer and Will trusts and trusts and trusts. In this moment he'd ruck up his shirt and let Hannibal slash, he'd open his mouth and let Hannibal feed down a tube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ﾍ(=￣∇￣)ﾉ Here we go another chapter, another update, and now we've reached the end of this story! It's been a lovely journey. We have a few one-shots planned for them but as of right now, this is complete. Subscribe to the series if you're interested in those one-shots (no eta, not anytime soon-soon). 
> 
> Will written by [Merry](http://merrythought.tumblr.com) | Hannibal written by [Dapper](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/)  
> 

The next morning, Will's body aches _inside_. It's an unusual feeling, one he's never had to deal with before. Without a doubt, Hannibal is awake, but his eyes remain closed. Will smiles to himself, a shy smile remembering last night, but specifically _after_ everything. 

Hannibal had lovingly cleaned him up, a new washcloth taken and warmed under water. Will had wanted to go to the bathroom with Hannibal, stating that he could manage it, but Hannibal had been gently insistent that he stay in bed. Will had complied, body hot and sticky after clinging onto Hannibal until the position was no longer comfortable, until Hannibal's cock had softened and slipped out. Will had tried to not let the emptiness feel disconcerting, but it had. Hannibal had returned and taken his time, each pass of the washcloth cleaning the remnants of sticky come off. 

Naked, they had slept close, but not necessarily entwined. They don't need to be completely wrapped up in each other's limbs to be close. Even now, Will feels it. Feels their closeness. Hannibal is on his side, facing him, hair askew. There's only a foot or so between them. They breathe the same air. Hannibal looks peaceful, face relaxed, a streak of sunlight streaming in through the blinds. It's not often that Hannibal allows himself to be watched like this. Hannibal normally rises before he does and elects to exercise and then start breakfast for them.

This is a rare treat.

"God, you're gorgeous," Will murmurs softly, his voice rough from sleep. His hand reaches out to brush longer strands of hair from Hannibal's forehead. 

"You've got an exotic edge to you." 

Before, Will would have never admitted such a thing. Now be wants to openly appreciate his lover, to give voice to his thoughts.

* * *

As usual, Hannibal wakes before Will. The room is quiet and comfortable, the somewhat stale-but-pleasant scent of sex on the air from the night before. In the time it takes for Will to begin to stir, Hannibal is quiet, hardly daring to move more than a muscle here and there. He's relaxed, his muscles lax and his mind a pleasantly dim buzz as the sun climbs higher in the sky, notes of pink against the walls beginning to turn orange and then gold as the sun rises. Yet even the quiet of the early morning pales to the sight that greets Hannibal when he opens his eyes. 

Will is asleep, his breathing even, his skin slightly flushed. He looks relaxed, looks content, the lines of concern that often take roost upon his face smoothed out under the weight of sleep. Hannibal watches him quietly, reflecting on the night before. He's careful as he reaches out one hand, the tips of his fingers just barely touching the sharp line of Will's jaw, stroking up to brush over his cheek. Will doesn't wake and Hannibal doesn't force him to, silently delighting in this quiet space between breaths when Will is so beautifully relaxed, as he had been the night before. Stretched out, luxuriating under Hannibal's touch, Will had allowed Hannibal to clean him, had allowed him to kiss softly and touch. He hadn't shied away from the open affection, hadn't suddenly tensed and turned away, and even now the memories stand out as even _more_ important than what Will had allowed him physically. 

Will had allowed him so much last night. Hannibal isn't sure he'll ever truly manage to process it all, nor does he want to. He intends to keep the memories fresh in his mind for as long as he can.

When Will finally begins to stir, Hannibal allows himself the freedom to relax. He closes his eyes - partly to give Will privacy in his moment of waking, as he doesn't know how Will is going to respond, but partly as he's curious to see what Will is going to do - and he listens as Will slowly begins to rouse. It's comfortable, this nest away from the rest of the world. Hannibal briefly entertains the thought of legitimately guiding Will back into sleep, but then he senses eyes watching him and he cannot help the awareness that floods him.

Yet instead of a negative response, instead of Will making an excuse and withdrawing, he speaks, his voice rough with sleep. He clearly knows that Hannibal is awake, and it's the tone of Will's voice that invites Hannibal to lazily open one eye, rather than the content of the words (though they also please him). His lips tug into a small, fatigued smile so common to those in the process of waking, and when Will reaches to him, Hannibal goes willingly. He hums a soft note in the back of his throat and briefly allows his eye to slide closed again, basking in a rare moment of contentment as Will strokes his hair.

"I feel I should point out that, to me, you also look quite exotic. My beautiful boy," Hannibal says, his own voice sleep-rough as well, but unquestionably warm. He reaches out with his free hand again and he doesn't need to look as he sets it on Will's hip. Hannibal would know where this man was were all his senses to fail him. 

"How are you feeling?"

* * *

Even though not fully awake, Will enjoys the warmth he sees as Hannibal slowly opens one eye to look at him. Hannibal's eyes are rich, like the color of golden oak. Hannibal's eyes remind him of sturdy, enduring trees. Deep roots buried in the soil, resilient, weathering storms and time itself. He enjoys Hannibal's small, pleased smile. So rarely he compliments this man. Will should change that. He wants to. He has time to do it, too. (He feels so fucking lucky.)

Will smiles when Hannibal lets his eye close again. There's trust in this, in closing your eyes around another - killer or not. An act of potential vulnerability. Will can appreciate it. His fingers comb through sleep mussed hair. He really does like the longer length on Hannibal. Hannibal had asked him what he preferred when it had grown long enough to warrant seeing a barber and Hannibal had naturally complied and simply gotten it shaped and trimmed instead of cut shorter. 

"I'm rugged, you're exotic," Will points out, tone lighter than he feels. "In a previous life you could have been a model whereas I would have been a lumberjack." 

He laughs softly, letting his fingertips trail down the side of Hannibal's face, over a stubbled cheek. Maybe it should feel stranger to be joking after such a night, but Will knows Hannibal won't give him a difficult time over it. Hannibal's hand on his hip is a familiar weight and Will shifts closer to be Hannibal. (Closer, closer. Always closer.) 

"Anyway, a little sore. Nothing you haven't felt before, I'm sure. How are _you_ feeling?" Will's finger tip strokes along the smaller scar on Hannibal's cheek.

* * *

Will is correct. Hannibal closes his eye again because in this moment, there's no part of him that doesn't trust Will. Their position is nothing if not vulnerable, but with the warmth of the blankets and the mingling scent of sex still present on the air, the space between them is filled with nothing but warmth and comfort. Such an awe-inspiring realization, that, considering where they had started so many months ago. Hannibal is not foolish enough to believe that this new shift in their dynamic means that there will be no more hardship, no more disagreements, but this is far more than he'd ever hoped to have, and Will's warmth is all-encompassing. 

So when Will reaches out to comb through his hair, Hannibal allows himself a soft, contented hum and goes still, enjoying each light, delicate stroke. It's comfort and care wrapped together. Hannibal feels the roughness of Will's fingers, but despite the strength in Will's hands, he's gentle. There's honest care in his touch, and once again Hannibal finds himself amazed that that is the case. That he has this now. He'd never _hoped_ for this. So that Will's touch slides from his hair down to his cheek, stroking along the rougher stubble Hannibal hasn't managed to shave away yet, his voice _so_ warm and gently teasing is almost breathtaking. Hannibal feels Will's fingers stroke over the small scar on his cheek, delicate, and - with a small smile on his own lips - Hannibal lazily allows himself to open his eye again. 

"Peaceful," is what he murmurs back, the word saying so much more than what Will had likely been implying. 

Hannibal's smile softens and warms, and when Will eases closer, Hannibal slides his hand back to press against the small of Will's back, over where he is undoubtedly aching. Hannibal draws him in closer, careful not to jostle him too much, and his fingers press against the muscles of Will's lower back, rubbing steadily, palm warm and fingers working at possibly-sore muscles. 

"Don't concern yourself with how I've felt in the past. We've done nothing sexually that I've not enjoyed. And for the record," Hannibal adds, leaning in just enough to brush a lazier kiss over Will's forehead, "I quite like how rugged you are. Lumberjack or not."

* * *

This feels like another seismic shift, another significant morning after, but still markedly different. Will hadn't betrayed, hadn't lied. Instead of a life ending, lives have been saved. There's love and safety between them and the knowledge that Hannibal had held him together, held his head above water and always would. It's frightening. Will's sure it's going to terrify him later. He'll realize the staggering amount of vulnerability that he's shown Hannibal, he'll be tempted to pull away, to have his guard up, to possibly regress in some fashion...

\-- but he's not that man anymore, is he? He doesn't think he could even be that type of man anymore. Maybe he doesn't need to repeat the past like that, maybe...

His teasing has Hannibal's lips curving into a small smile. It's beautiful. It's unguarded. It's genuine. It's a smile Will wants to see more of. He wants to be the reason for it. He wants to be the biggest reason for Hannibal to smile. 

Hannibal's touch is gentle, but comforting. Will's is a little sore, but he's certain it's nowhere near what he's left Hannibal with. Will knows he's been a little too enthusiastic in the past. Been rough and demanding, really. Of course Hannibal is gracious. The assurance is nice though. Being sexual is still a new dynamic for them. While Hannibal can tolerate a lot, Will doesn't want Hannibal to simply tolerate out of love. He wants Hannibal to enjoy it. To enjoy _him_.

"You'd... You'd tell me if you didn't like something, right? You'd put a stop to it like you had in the kitchen." 

Perhaps not the best segway into an uncomfortable topic, but morning afters seem to facilitate such things. Will slides down lower on the bed, tucking his head against Hannibal's chest, a blatant attempt to hide. He wants to talk, but not risk the eyes. He hasn't let himself be held quite like this often - showing neediness - but Will can't be bothered to care right now. He just needs Hannibal and they need to talk.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't notice the exact moment where Will's contentment changes into uncertainty, but he does see the effects of it in the seconds that follow. The tension in Will's body increases, and Hannibal feels it all the way through to his back. Hannibal glances down, still content, but aware of the shift in Will's posture, and as he strokes his hand slowly over Will's lumbar spine to soothe the ache he must be feeling, Hannibal watches closely as Will begins to unravel. 

He's subtle with it, Will's contentment giving way to concern, and Hannibal merely observes the change. Perhaps he could reach out and put a stop to it, but in the lazy, emotionally-vulnerable moments of their 'morning afters', he feels like Will might need this emotional transparency.

So, still content but somewhat more alert, Hannibal watches as Will begins to ease closer. Will doesn't need to make a request for Hannibal to turn over and lay down on his back; as Will eases in closer, Hannibal just moves. It's a slow, lazy slide with rustling sheets and stiff muscles. Hannibal reaches one arm out as Will comes in close, hiding his face against Hannibal's chest, safe in the hair he seems to like to rub his cheek against in order to ground himself. Lazy, Hannibal's hand slides up Will's back before stroking back down, and he draws the sheets up over Will again, ever careful, ever caring. He doesn't push Will to speak; Will quickly reveals his uncertainty.

While the thought of what had transpired in the kitchen still leaves a slightly bitter taste in Hannibal's mouth, he doesn't fault Will. Instead he sighs, a low breath that rumbles into a hum so that Will can feel the vibrations against his cheek. Hannibal's hand slides up to slowly stroke through Will's hair, curling as he winds his arm around Will, holding him against his chest. In the early morning, before light has drawn them from their makeshift den, Hannibal has no qualms in carefully stroking Will's hair, in holding him close. 

Eyes still half-lidded, he presses a kiss to the top of Will's head and then merely rests there, breathing in the scent of warmth and sex. 

"In the past, perhaps not," Hannibal says honestly. "There was a moment, when you had the belt around my throat, that I could have told you to stop, but didn't. But I enjoyed what we did then, regardless. You can be... intense." Hannibal breathes in Will's scent again, a low scent of sex and sweat and warmth and _home_. "But at present... yes. I believe I would tell you."

Hannibal considers the topic for a moment, lazy in the morning. It takes him only a moment to guess a motive for this topic. "Will... what you allowed me last night... I could not have asked you for more. You were - and are - breathtaking for me. So I can only assume that _this_... has little to do with last night. Are you bothered by what happened in the kitchen?" 

Hannibal hardly needs to ask. He knows _he_ still is, but when Will is so vulnerable it hardly seems like the moment to bring it up in its entirety, not unless this is Will's choice. 

* * *

Hannibal accepts him, shifting to make it easier for Will to hide. Wiry chest hair is grounding as is Hannibal's skin and smell. It would be so very easy for Will to lose himself in this. In Hannibal. He doesn't _have_ to go down this path. He doesn't need to dredge up past mistakes. Hannibal isn't forcing him (when would Hannibal ever?). 

Will could initiate something. Kiss Hannibal. Give him a blowjob even. Distract them both with the physical, indulge in the sexual. There are options. There doesn't _have_ to be talking. 

And yet Will wants to make amends. Will wants _to_ mend. The thought is terrifying. Absolutely fucking terrifying. For so long he'd wanted to thrash and tear, to hurt Hannibal back, to have some sort of revenge and even out the scale. He'd rejected Hannibal. He'd pushed him away while he retreated away from the world. (It's difficult to think of that period.) Then, after the fall, it had been to make a mess out of Hannibal, to leave a mark. Will has been more focused on the allure of killing, of taking lives together, of blood and seeing that feral glint in Hannibal's eye, that snarl--

Hannibal pulls the sheet over him. Fingers stroke through his hair. As if he's a child hiding from the boogeyman or a bad nightmare, Hannibal seeks to comfort him. It's a ridiculous thought, but hasn't Will often reflected on Hannibal's apparent ease in taking up whatever "role" is needed of him? Protean. Adaptive. Hannibal Lecter is nothing if not versatile. Lover. Killer. Friend. Parent. Teacher. Doctor. Hannibal bends for him and Will knows he's taken advantage of it at times.

This impending conversation is important. Not that he's any sort of expert, but Will knows relationships take effort. He can't pick and choose anymore. He can't pull Hannibal close to then push away and retreat when he's not satisfied. It's accepting the good and the bad, it's owning up to mistakes. 

Hannibal calls him intense and Will's lips twitch in a small smile. That's likely a nice word for it. Will's glad to hear that, at present, Hannibal would tell him no. It's important. 

"Yes, it's about the kitchen incident," Will sighs, warring with apprehension but knowing that he needs to continue on. He closes his eyes. He can remember it so clearly, Hannibal going to his knees... "I coerced you into it. You were resistant and I told you to trust me. Yet I think I was just testing you. I wanted you to bend for me but I still become upset that you would go that far."

* * *

Will's discomfort is evident, but Hannibal does not draw undue attention to it. In the relaxing early morning light, his hand merely strokes over Will's hair, over his nape, his shoulders, and he honors Will with a respectful silence as he lets Will gather his thoughts. There's no urgency. There's no condemnation. The conversation that Will has broached will not be pleasant, but Hannibal has no desire to skim over it. 

This is important. If Will has brought it up, if he's gathered his nerve enough to open this dialogue, it is important enough to discuss in full. Yet Hannibal doesn't leave Will to flounder in the dark. He offers his chest as refuge, his touch as sanctuary. He breathes in Will's scent, and he listens as Will responds.

It _is_ about the kitchen. Hannibal isn't surprised. He had anticipated either the kitchen incident or the one with the belt, but he had consented to one. The other, as Will states, he had been coerced into. 

It's not a pleasant memory, though Will's desperate need for violence afterwards had turned the _bad_ into something productive. Still, Hannibal cannot claim to not still be bothered. It is merely less important than the rest of their relationship. Still, it is important to Will, and so as Will nestles in closer as if to hide from his own shame, Hannibal curls his fingers through Will's hair, stroking, tugging gently, adding a soothing, rhythmic, _comforting_ sensation to the mix. 

Even now, there is a part of Hannibal that is amazed that Will allows this. How far they've come, especially now.

"You are battling with a duality," Hannibal says softly. There is no anger in his voice. "You enjoy the thought of power over me. Just as I enjoy the thought of power over you. And yet you struggle with the notion of _too much_ power. In that moment, in the kitchen, the two of us were operating under different assumptions. It was a lack of communication."

Hannibal's fingers curl gently in Will's hair, his nails scratching over his scalp. "I viewed it initially as an unpracticed test of the dominance you had asked me for. I reasoned that to deny you something so new and budding would be detrimental to your confidence. _That_ is why I went to my knees for you. I think you saw it as a lack of assertion. Something spineless. That you were attempting to dominate in a bitter mindset was your main problem, Will. I would... _strongly_ caution you against that. You shouldn't _need_ to test me. To ask for submission and then mock its appearance is not healthy."

* * *

Hannibal's fingers seek to offer comfort, stroking through his hair, gifting him with tactile sensation. It does help. Of course it would. Hannibal knows him. Knows so much of him that it should be terrifying - but it isn't. At least not now. Will's not sure if it will remain that way. He's no fortune teller, he doesn't know what the future holds for them (although he remembers what demise he'd thought awaited them last night). But he doesn't think in the near future that he'll be completely pulling away and closing off - regressing. He's grown to want Hannibal's touch, accustomed to the support, the attention. Hannibal knows his body and mind intimately, his heart... Hannibal is beginning to know that, too. 

Duality. It makes sense. Hasn't that always been the case with Will? Good versus bad? Dark versus light? Some epic struggle that Hollywood loved to make money off of. In reality, it's torturous, jaws pulling him apart limb by limb. He remembers his unsure questions: ' _I can still be... good? You'll still have me?'_

The answer had been a resounding _yes._ Hannibal loves all of him, every cell of him, every particle. Surely the world would think them insane, that Will is suffering with some horrible case of Stockholm Syndrome, that a monster like Hannibal _couldn't_ love and yet Will is surrounded by evidence that proves the contrary.

The sensation changes, nails scraping along his scalp and Will sighs and pushes into the touch. He listens to Hannibal and Will understands Hannibal's point of view. He'd acquiesced - submitted - because he hadn't wanted to quash Will's confidence. At the time, Will hadn't even been aware of being in a bitter mindset, but apparently he had been. 

_'You shouldn't **need** to test me.' _

Will knows it's true. Hannibal has done more than his fair share of proving himself loyal and dependable, that he has Will's best interests in mind, that he's trustworthy. It brings a warmth that Will is beginning to really enjoy. 

"You're right." Will squirms a little, liking the feel of Hannibal against him.

 

"In a way, it's scary to know how far I'd go for you," Will shares, a segway into the _other_ issue of Hannibal being hurt and the reaction it had had on him. "Despite what he's done, I've never wanted Jack dead, but I could see myself hurting him for having hurt you."

* * *

Mere months ago, had Hannibal said any of this in the same way, Will would have snarled at him and withdrawn, a wounded dog limping off to lick his wounds. Now, despite the mild, retroactive reprimand, Will merely arches his head into Hannibal's touch, seems to bask in it, and then verbally agrees. Hannibal's touch stills for the single beat of a heart and then it resumes. Whatever tension had begun to creep in on him vanishes almost immediately, and the look in his eyes is nothing but a relaxed adoration. He curls his fingers slowly and carefully through Will's hair, keeping his touch gentle, letting Will know that this conversation - while difficult - is not one that has changed anything. 

This is not the tense, bitten-out exchange of information that once would have befallen them both. Instead, it's Will enfolded in his arms, pressed in against the warmth of Hannibal's chest, his weight pressed into Hannibal's body and the sheet covering the both of them. It's intimacy in the face of an unpleasant conversation. It's a reminder that they are in this together, a united front instead of opposing sides. 

Hannibal's free hand slides down Will's back as Will speaks, his palm laying warm over Will's lower back, as if trying to soothe the ache he must be feeling. And while Hannibal isn't looking forward to the shift in topic - for talk of Will's reaction while he'd been 'collared' edges close to the reason he'd needed to be. Yet Hannibal breathes through the quick flare of uncertainty and refocuses on Will, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head. 

"You have always been set in your morals, have always expected certain thoughts and behaviors of yourself. It must be disquieting to suddenly realize that the addition of another in your life has changed your moral compass. I understand that particular realization quite well," Hannibal adds, with a slow, careful stroke of his fingers through Will's hair. The motion is pointed. 

"For what it's worth, I do not wish to bend you to my every whim. Occasionally, perhaps, but I value your individuality far too much to wish to destroy it. While your desire to protect and defend might be jarring, I hope it might offer some comfort to know that it is not an intentional manipulation on my part to _change_ you. And," Hannibal trails off for a moment, just enough to look down at Will gently. 

"Briefly reverting to the other topic, for the record, Will, if ever you wish to hold power over me again, you need only say so. You've not ruined your chance."

* * *

There's a pleasant ache from Hannibal having been inside of him - a reminder of Hannibal's cock pushing into him and Will becoming more known and open to Hannibal in another way. _Making_ _love_. Because it hadn't been fucking, no. Even now, Will is a little taken back at how last night had gone. Because he had fucking _asked_ for it all. He may have told Hannibal to do as he pleased - to go as fast or slow as he'd wanted - but Will had initiated and given permission. Of course Hannibal had still checked in with him and obliged him because Will apparently can't _not_ give input. 

But it's okay. Hannibal had been okay with him. Okay with them. Hannibal is okay with _this_ too. Hannibal doesn't stiffen or walk on eggshells around him. Not like before. Hannibal isn't overly careful, but nor is he cruel. A kiss is pressed to Will's head and Will breathes in deep. In this morning cocoon of blankets and entwined limbs, he feels unbelievably lucky to have refuge in Hannibal. That they have survived through Will's acrimony and uncertainty. That they've salvaged their rickety friendship and built it to an actual relationship seems nothing short of a miracle at times.

(Will's never been a believer in the divine, but Hannibal makes him question that.)

As Hannibal speaks of that "addition" changing his moral compass, Will pictures himself standing in the darkness, a hand outstretched, trying to orient himself and then Hannibal is behind him, shifting him ever so slightly, pointing him--

_'...but I value your individuality far too much to wish to destroy it.'_

Yes, that's right. Hannibal isn't seeking him to be merely a reflection. Hannibal doesn't want to change him, doesn't want to use him. And apparently Will's not fucked up so badly that Hannibal wouldn't allow him to touch on dominance again.

"If that's the case, I want you to do something for me Hannibal," Will murmurs. "I want you to not shave today." 

It's not the most outrageous of 'orders' or requests, but Hannibal shaves every day without fail... And Will would like to see him with some stubble, he'd like Hannibal to consciously disrupt a pattern for him. Will's head lifts off of Hannibal's chest to look him in the eye. 

"I also want you to tell me about your nightmare."

* * *

While Hannibal isn't intentionally attempting to manipulate by changing topics, he cannot deny the benefit to directing Will away from thoughts of that night. It opens up a different line of conversation, an offering that Will had undoubtedly assumed lost following his actions in the kitchen. So when Will carefully shifts against him, Hannibal looks down at him once more, stroking his fingers slowly through Will's hair. He waits, warmly curious as to what Will might do with that information, and he is not disappointed.

The order - perhaps a request, really - is something simple, and Hannibal is actually surprised at Will's request. Will asks him to forgo shaving for the day, and while a part of Hannibal does wish to protest that he'd look less put together, he stops himself. His vanity is easily set aside, and Will must want him to stop for a reason. Perhaps it's simply because Hannibal hasn't allowed himself to go without shaving in Will's presence. Aside from the shadow of stubble on his face in the evenings, he's generally clean-shaven. That Will might wish to see him less put together is actually a somewhat pleasant thought, in retrospect. Hannibal considers it, then gently tightens his hold on Will with a soft, almost prideful sound. 

"All right," he says, "I'll refrain today."

At first, Hannibal believes that is it. He watches as Will shifts again, turning just enough to face him. Hannibal is still relaxed in the early morning light, his expression fond, but when Will meets his eyes and Hannibal sees something almost uncertain and stubborn in Will's gaze, some of the warmth and relaxation that he feels vanishes. His brow furrows in concern, but then Will adds his _other_ request and Hannibal's expression goes suddenly and completely blank.

It's a jarring shift, from a careful, fond warmth to a devoid mask. Hannibal lays there, and as he does, he notes a downside to Will laying atop him. Will can feel the way all of his muscles tense, regardless of how little Hannibal wishes to let his disquiet be known. 

Shock gives way to anger, which then gives way to caution and uncertainty. Hannibal is quiet for a few seconds too long and he knows that Will notices. Will Graham is a _very_ observant man. He is not exempt in this moment. 

"I dreamed of blood on snow," he says quietly, tonelessly. "Of being alone. Is this really important, Will?"

* * *

Clean shaven or with a 5 o'clock shadow, Hannibal is quite attractive. Earlier on in their friendship, Will would have never thought that. It's fucking love - their undeniable connection that somehow casts a new light on Hannibal, accentuating features and transforming Hannibal into Will's ideal, into the epitome of what Will desires. And God, does Will desire this man. Gone are thoughts of womanly curves, now replaced with Hannibal's masculinity, firm muscles with a softer middle, body hair, defined cheekbones, a dick... Christ, Will's changed.

Asserting dominance, playing with power... It doesn't have to be all collars and leashes and kneeling. Will is beginning to realize that. Requesting that Hannibal do this one simple thing for him... Well, Will likely isn't going to fuck it up at least. He's seen Hannibal with stubble in the evening and in the morning. Truthfully he's looking forward to the scratch of it against his skin.

But is asking Hannibal about the nightmare and attempting to pry into this issue _smart_? Likely not. A blank expression meets him, Hannibal closing up before his very eyes and it _hurts_ in a way Will isn't able to quantify. While he had asked that night, Will hasn't brought it up since then. He's never attempted to unearth Hannibal's secrets, at least not in broad daylight and so bluntly. He'd skulked around while chasing after Hannibal but this... This is Will trying his hand at a locked room in Hannibal's mind, twisting a polished handle and hoping Hannibal lets him in. 

He doesn't. Instead, Hannibal goes stiff. Will registers flickers of anger that dance into wariness. Hannibal is unsure and guarded. Hannibal's answer isn't much of an answer. It's akin to Hannibal allowing him to peer through the keyhole. 

Blood on snow. Being alone. It's a scrap of the picture, one corner folded down for him and not enough. 

(And hadn't Will opened himself for Hannibal last night? In all ways? Where's the reciprocity?)

"Let's shower," Will suggests. He's not going to force Hannibal into this. Not right now, anyway. "I think it's only fair that we _do_ talk about this, but it can be later." 

He squirms up and rubs his cheek against Hannibal's before pulling away, wincing a little as he does. He wants to keep them moving, to get Hannibal under the relaxing spray. He can't handle the idea of having soured the morning.

* * *

This isn't what the morning has been working up to. In a sense, Hannibal cannot help but feel irate for a different reason. While their conversation has been somewhat strained and difficult, they had been at least making progress. Hannibal hasn't missed how open Will has been like this. How welcoming, how inviting. He's invited Hannibal into his space, has courted secrets that he would have shied away from before. Will is beautifully, brilliantly bare for him, just as he had been the night before. 

Hannibal isn't certain which of them he's more upset with when Will prompts him for information. Will, for daring to ask, or himself, for being unable to answer. 

Will has given him so much. That his reaction is to close off instead of giving Will the same courtesy rankles. Yet Hannibal's expression remains closed off and blank as Will looks at him, as if trying to see past him. Then, finally, Will seems to relent, suggesting a shower, and while the gentle brush of Will's cheek against his own is not indicative of severe anger or disappointment, Hannibal _feels_ the twist within just the same. It's an unpleasant realization, to know with certainty that _he_ is the problem. 

Will draws away from him then and Hannibal watches. He watches as Will gets up, watches him wince, and he feels the distance between them immediately. Perhaps that's the reason that Hannibal suddenly makes a small sound in the back of his throat. He pushes himself up on one elbow, and then slowly sits up. Will is on his feet in seconds, but Hannibal gets out of bed slower. Despite this, he reaches over with one hand, setting it on Will's shoulder, and when Hannibal stands, it's to gently draw Will back, both supporting him in his discomfort and to press a kiss to the base of Will's nape.

"I apologize," Hannibal says quietly, into the warmth of Will's skin. "Of course. This is... is something that you wish to know. It's understandable. You just surprised me."

Hannibal says nothing about whether or not he _will_ answer later, but he enfolds Will in his arms, giving him what amounts to a small hug, and then steps ahead, ushering the both of them into the bathroom. He hasn't lost the stiffness of movement from the unpleasant reminder of his nightmare, but his touch is still gentle, still soothing. Hannibal reaches over to turn the water on without being asked, but before he does anything else - before he takes charge by default - he thinks back to Will's request for him to avoid shaving and then stops. After a second, Hannibal draws his hand back and instead looks to Will. 

"I know you're sore. Would you like me to get the towels?"

* * *

Is it unfair of Will to ask? To desire answers and to want Hannibal's secrets revealed to him? Will knows if it hadn't been important - hadn't been significant in some way - Hannibal would have simply told him. Because Hannibal _has_ been honest with him. Their relationship hinges on Will knowing that Hannibal _is_ being honest with him, that there is stability for Will here and no manipulation underfoot. 

An eye for an eye, a scar for a scar, betrayals met with betrayals. Will had shared his fears, had let himself trust and submit and indulge... And Hannibal in turn has been resistant - at least in this one issue. Will doesn't want to get down over it, to become bitter. He can't afford to take another misstep. He's taken enough of them. 

Will should feel lucky that Hannibal even answered at all and that Hannibal will still let him try his hand at domination. He's still very very much aware that submitting isn't in Hannibal's nature... Revealing secrets isn't in Hannibal's nature either and yet Will _wants_ them, he wants to know. Maybe he can't help. He's no therapist. He's not holding his breath that he'll have anything helpful to say. He can't banish nightmares, but he can show love and support to Hannibal. He wants the chance at least.

Will hears Hannibal get off the bed - a good sign, not that Will had believed Hannibal would turn down the offer of showering together. A hand comes to his shoulder and Will stops. He steps back into Hannibal's body and feels a familiar mouth against the base of his neck. Will's not expecting the apology, the admission of Hannibal being surprised. It makes sense. He feels calmer now, Hannibal's hands smoothing wrinkles. Of course, Hannibal hasn't said if he would or wouldn't answer later, but Will's hoping it's the former. 

After a small embrace, they both enter the bathroom. Will lets Hannibal start the water. While he hasn't blatantly stated that he wanted to be dominant now or all day, when Hannibal looks back and asks about the towels, Will thinks that Hannibal has that assumption. Will has no problem with it. 

"Sure, thanks," he simply replies, letting Hannibal take care of their towels. After testing the temperature of the water, he turns the shower on and climbs in under the stream. The rushing hot water down his body is heaven. While Hannibal had of course cleaned them both up last night, it holds nothing to a shower. When Hannibal joins him, Will gives him a small smile before stepping in close and wrapping his arms around Hannibal's waist.

"Still feel you inside," Will murmurs, as he lets a finger slide tellingly down between Hannibal's asscheeks. "It's a pleasant ache. A reminder of you."

* * *

While he cannot mitigate his immediate response, and while he can't _stop_ feeling a certain way in response to Will's sudden question, Hannibal _can_ offer this to Will. He can acknowledge his mistake and can smooth a hand over it, attempting to ease Will's resulting irritation or hurt. He can speak of peace offerings, and he can take a pointed step out of his own comfort zone in order to tell Will - without words - that Hannibal still values his input. That he's not closed himself off. That Will hasn't ruined the morning by asking his question. 

Hannibal isn't pleased over the prospect of the conversation returning later but at least he now knows that Will has it in mind. It hasn't been forgotten and shoved under a rug where it belongs. He's glad he at least knows about it. He can prepare.

But for now Hannibal walks to the closet and quietly pulls out two towels, both luxurious and fluffy, and he hangs them up on the racks just outside the shower. He takes a moment to retrieve a citrus-and-spice body wash that he knows will make Will's natural scent that much more appealing, and a shampoo with notes of sandalwood to top it off. Then he turns back and watches as Will steps into the shower, apparently deciding that it's warm enough for his purposes. Hannibal watches him step in, quietly admires how _good_ Will looks standing there, and Hannibal cannot deny the flood of warmth and satisfaction and triumph that floods him at the memory of last night. Whatever comes next, he's had Will intimately. Will has let him in, in more ways than just physically. It's a thrilling sensation.

Hannibal walks to the shower and quietly steps in behind Will, allowing him the majority of the stream. Yet it isn't long before Will turns to look at him and smiles, stepping in close. Hannibal sinks into the warmth of his embrace and sets both body wash and shampoo on the shelf in the shower. He's reaching for the shampoo to pour a little out on his hands, intending to wash Will's hair for him, when Will's touch dips pointedly lower and Hannibal stills with a small sound in the back of his throat.

Heat creeps up his spine, curling around the line of skin where Will's arms rest, and it settles low in his abdomen as Will speaks. Hannibal's hum is low and pleased and when he bends to press a kiss to Will's shoulder, he makes sure to scratch over Will's skin with his stubble, just a little. He carefully spreads his legs enough to allow Will to touch, and his free hand slides down Will's back almost reverently. 

"Good. I like knowing that you can feel me with you. Inside of you. I dare say I cannot tell you _how_ pleased I am to hear that."

* * *

Will wants to know about the nightmare. There's a part of him that wants nothing but to pin Hannibal to the shower wall, to grip Hannibal's shoulders and demand that he sheds the light on the nightmare and its significance, that he opens up and shares. More importantly, that Hannibal doesn't close himself off. (Underneath Will's frustration there exists an uncomfortable hurt, the realization that, after everything, after all this time, Hannibal would hold himself back. It's not _fair_.)

But it's not worth pushing. Not here, not now. Hannibal hasn't stalked off and neither has he. They've both decided to move on from the topic and still remain close. There's still warmth and touch and Will feels relieved that there's apparently some fucking stability, some foundation that has been built between them. It had seemed shaky for so long. When had it solidified? How had it been accomplished? Had it simply been time's hands taking brick and mortar, one block at a time and constructing it? Or had they also helped in the task?

(And does this fortification, this foundation under their feet, outlast time itself?)

Will likes how Hannibal responds to him, how Hannibal responds to his words. A sound of agreement is given, a kiss and then the scratch of stubble against his skin. Hannibal also spreads his legs invitingly and Will's index finger purposefully strokes over Hannibal's hole. They're limited in the shower unless Will gets out and grabs the lube.

He doesn't. His finger simply rubs circles around the sensitive area. He may later. While they haven't had sex in the shower (yet), Will's pretty sure Hannibal would be okay with it. Cleanup would be easy at least. 

"I probably have an idea of how pleased," Will murmurs, a little cheeky. He can't help it. "To know one another _deeply_ , _intimately_..." The tip of his finger presses but doesn't breach. "It's both maddening and amazing just how perfect it is." Will nuzzles at Hannibal. "Wash my hair while I touch you."

* * *

That Hannibal hasn't ruined the mood from before is a relief. Perhaps he'd made a mistake; he's not disputing that, but that Will has offered him a silent second chance is something that Hannibal appreciates. There's been no intimacy lost between them. Will's touch is bold but gentle, self-assured in a way that Hannibal hadn't expected, and he enjoys it as Will's hand slides down and his finger dips down lower to press against his hole. 

It's a bolder touch than Hannibal is used to, but they've not had many of these intimate morning-afters. He's not complaining. Will's arms around him are confident despite the hiccup back in bed, and as Hannibal stands there under the spray and feels Will's finger circle his skin slowly, he half-expects Will to tell him to leave the shower in order to retrieve the lubricant.

He doesn't. Instead Will sees fit to surprise Hannibal by simply touching. It's a slow, enticing touch that does nothing but tease, but it's careful and purposeful and sensitive. Hannibal's eyes slide closed in a welcome contentment; clearly he has no qualms about permitting Will to continue despite their change in positions the night before. Like this, with Will pleasantly sore with the memory of his touch and being so intimately wrapped up in pleasure, it seems like the next step. Hannibal's breath catches when Will presses against him a little harder, teasing even more but not pressing in. A shiver slides up Hannibal's spine and when he presses his lips to Will's shoulder again, it's with an extra scratch of his stubble over Will's skin.

"Yes," Hannibal says, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice. "I suppose you _do_ have an idea how pleased. You're quite right." 

He takes the bottle of shampoo in hand without complaint, a low hum escaping him. It's a sound of satisfaction and Hannibal draws back just enough to pour some of the shampoo into the palm of his hand. He catches a quick glance between them, enough to notice that neither he or Will are entirely soft, but it's a good, slow, careful intimacy that feels warm despite the misstep earlier.

Hannibal brings his hands to Will's hair as asked, and as Will's touch continues, Hannibal works the shampoo into a slight lather and then slowly cards his fingers back through Will's hair. He doesn't rush or push; he keeps his touch slow, working the shampoo into Will's hair with a slow massage and the occasional scratch of nails over his scalp. 

"I'm quite familiar with the ache, and with the distant pleasure that accompanies it. Knowing that you can feel it now, that you shared yourself with me last night... I am humbled. And very, _very_ pleased," Hannibal finishes, with a low note of teasing in his own voice. 

* * *

Maybe he should still try and get Hannibal to talk. Maybe he shouldn't back down from his request. Will has a right to know, doesn't he? Will's not an expert. His empathy doesn't give him a free pass on how to behave in relationships, how to deal with conflict. Being able to assume your partner's position didn't necessarily allow for mind reading or knowing when to act, when to initiate and _how_ to go about things.

Will knows Hannibal is bothered by how he'd reacted. Hannibal had closed off, shut himself off. The door remaining shut and Will's hand effectively swatted away. They're both trying now, raising the white flag and finding some peace in the middle of a potentially dangerous zone. Will appreciates the effort on both of their parts, he does. It shows a growing maturity. It shows growth period. 

Will tries to throw himself into this task, to let them both enjoy the touch and intimacy of this moment. They've been through a lot and Will doesn't necessarily _want_ to make an issue about this. So he touches and teases, his finger rubbing over puckered skin and taking in the slight tremble to Hannibal's body as he allows Will to touch and feel at his own pace. Hannibal is loving as he works the shampoo into Will's hair. There's something completely and utterly intimate about washing another. Free of clothing, one is exposed, all their scars and imperfections for each other's eyes to take in. It feels extraordinary to realize how far they've come, that there can be this easiness around each other. This _rightness._

Hannibal's fingers are thorough and varied, one minute massaging and then the next scratching at Will's scalp. Will feels arousal battling out with relaxation and it's an interesting mix. It really is. There's still the discomfort from last night's activities but it's not _bad._ It's certainly not a deterrent from doing it again (which Will doesn't know how to feel about). 

Hannibal's words cause a low pleasure to simmer within Will. It feels good to know that Hannibal is pleased by him. And humbled. Of course Hannibal is able to talk about it all, sounding both composed and slightly teasing at the same time. 

"I like hearing that," Will admits. Hannibal encourages him to dip his head back to wash out the shampoo and Will obliges, his eyes slipping shut as the shower stream rinses out the product. Will's teasing stops, his hand gliding over Hannibal's ass and then up his back before coming to rest over the Verger brand. 

"Je suis fou de toi," Will say suddenly, his other hand coming to grip Hannibal's shoulder. He steps out of the direct stream and presses in closer. ( _I am crazy about you._ ) Their bodies fit together perfectly and Will shudders as he licks his lips before leaning in and slotting their mouths together. 

He's not the best with words, but this. This he can do. Will kisses Hannibal with fervor, with hunger and satisfaction because he knows only Hannibal can sate him. 

* * *

There is something so beautifully intimate about washing Will's hair. It goes beyond Hannibal's enjoyment of the task as a whole and instead focuses directly on _Will_. He's a subtly expressive man, his eyes half-closing in pleasure when Hannibal's nails scratch over his scalp. Yet it's more than that. It's the way he can feel Will relaxing, the way he can feel Will's answering touch growing bolder, the micro-expressions that speak of a growing relaxation despite Hannibal's misstep in the bedroom. It is visible, tangible proof that Will is still allowing him this, that he's still present and hasn't closed himself off the way he would have before. 

Hannibal washes his hair slowly, and when he directs Will to tip his head back, Hannibal is quite taken by the way that Will just _does_ without question. Hannibal admires the sight, the long, pale expanse of Will's throat, dotted with marks from the night before. There is no hesitation as Will grants him this intimacy, and Hannibal is perhaps a little more reverent in the task than he needs to be, but he doesn't care. Will's comfort is important to him, and so Hannibal's touch is gentle as he cleans the suds from Will's hair. Yet even as he does so, he feels the change in Will. He feels the teasing press of his fingers abate, feels the way that Will slides his hand back up slowly as he eases out of the stream of the shower once his hair is clean. 

Hannibal watches him curiously, though he is not immune to Will's slow seduction. The possessive press of Will's hand against the Verger brand is like a sudden lit match, sending a mixture of over-sensitivity and a lack of it through him. Hannibal shivers, but it's Will's words that draw a soft sound from his throat, that make him ache. He's only just managed to breathe Will's name in a soft, shuddering exhale when Will steps in close and Hannibal feels the press of his body, from toe to chest. There is no question about what he wants, and Hannibal doesn't deny him. 

Will kisses him and Hannibal immediately lifts a hand to cup Will's cheek, keeping him close as he returns the kiss with equal fervor. Will kisses him hungrily and Hannibal's groan, while soft, is full of an answering desire. He winds his free arm around Will's waist, pulling him in suddenly flush to Hannibal's body. And while Hannibal _is_ careful not to jostle Will too much, he is not careful as he kisses him. Hannibal coaxes Will's lips parted simply so he can lick deeply into his mouth, chasing his taste and angling the press of their mouths just enough so that Will can feel the rough scratch of his stubble against his chin. Will's stubble has softened in the shower, but Hannibal's is still short enough to scratch, and he takes every opportunity to pay Will back for his earlier, teasing touch. 

"The feeling is mutual, _mylimasis_ ," Hannibal breathes against Will's lips, taking the lower one between his teeth to nip at and then suck on slowly, a hint at what he _could_ do were Will so inclined. 

* * *

Better to be marred lovers than dead. Their scar tissue is sensitive in some places and deadened in others. When they map out marks on each other, their fingers pull out interesting responses at times. Their bodies tell stories that others wouldn't believe. Sometimes Will can hardly believe what they've been through. Freddie Lounds had been into the sensationalism, but even her words had paled. Like they could be summed up with two words - _Murder Husbands_. Quaint and short sighted. A snake like Freddie could never understand them. 

Will remembers Alana Bloom speaking of _folie à deux_ to Abigail. They'd been in the Hobbs' living room, boxes of evidence surrounding them and all Will could do was look longingly at Abigail and hope that the shadows in Abigail's eyes were able to be extinguished. Abigail Hobbs will always be a sore spot for him, a phantom ache that medication or care can't touch, but life goes on. The dead remain dead, they decompose and the living are left with memory and regret. While he could surely imagine her, could close his eyes and wade out into the quiet of his stream, Will wants to stay in reality. In reality _with_ Hannibal. 

Hannibal's hand lifts to tenderly cup his cheek but the kiss is intense and raw. And Will's pulled closer, wet skin against wet skin. _Home._ Hannibal is synonymous with home now. And Will knows they need to move, they're going to leave this farmhouse - this house of firsts for them - this house that has become a home, but it doesn't really matter. 

What matters is the way Hannibal's tongue licks into his mouth, the way Hannibal's stubble scratches against his face and the reminder of just how far Hannibal would go for him - how far Hannibal _has_ gone for him. Teeth nip at his bottom lip before sucking and Will sighs. He insistently turns them so Hannibal is under the showerhead, the stream flattening out his hair even more. Will licks up his neck, over the bite mark he'd made months ago. 

"Your turn, baby," he murmurs before nudging away to grab shampoo. Their life is one of Even Stevens and Will wouldn't have it any other way. 

* * *

Hannibal doubts that he will ever tire of tasting this man, of licking into his mouth and feeling the thrill of Will's answering groan. There is something to be said for this newfound comfort that has been long sought after and hard won. It has been a long time in coming and Hannibal sometimes cannot fathom how difficult it had been to get to this point, and yet it is all the sweeter for it.

He kisses Will deeply, nipping at his lips, chasing the slow slide of his tongue, his own fingers sliding slow and gentle through Will's hair as Hannibal keeps him close enough to taste properly. He can feel the phantom ache from the brand upon his back and it is somehow all the better in this moment. Neither of them are fully hard but both are interested, but it's a lazy, casual interest that feels comfortable and right. Hannibal basks in it. 

So when Will gently breaks the kiss and eases back, his voice a low murmur, Hannibal stills at first and then relaxes, allowing Will to carefully guide him back under the spray of the shower. Hannibal watches him for as long as he can until the water threatens to fall in his eyes. Then he tips his head back with a small sigh, letting the water dampen his hair for the shampoo in Will's hands. He isn't expecting the pass of Will's tongue and Hannibal lets out a soft sound, muffled, almost a moan as Will maps out the mark he'd left so many months ago.

"Whatever you wish," Hannibal promises, and he means it. Maybe the impending conversation is not pleasant but Hannibal will make himself if Will truly desires it. But for now he allows it to simply mean Will's hands in his hair, washing it. Hannibal relaxes, watching Will for as long as he's able. 

* * *

They're practiced in this, in maneuvering carefully in the shower and washing each other's hair (although Hannibal does it more often than Will). At one point, Will would have scoffed at the domesticity, at the _tenderness_ of it, but not anymore. Now, Will is able to appreciate the care, the comfort and how it had been hard-fought to get to such a state. This is their calm after the storm. They're writing this happy ending. _Their_ happy ending. Together.

He'd punched a mirror until his knuckles had bled... He'd refused to eat until Hannibal had dragged him out of bed and forced him to bathe. Will's been the very definition of difficult and petulant but they're _here._ Together. Easy, fond smiles and hands and mouths that are so familiar. How much closer will they become? Already the intimacy seems staggering, a fathomless depth to consume him... but Hannibal hadn't let him drown. So there is to be no hiding now.

So, Will washes Hannibal's hair, taking his time to enjoy the closeness and simple task. A few kisses are exchanged when Will works the shampoo into Hannibal's hair. It's a calming activity. Despite their comfortable intimacy, the impending conversation still is in the back of Will's mind. He's not ready to let it go. Not after he's given so much and opened himself up. But that's for later.

They finish their shower and they both dry off. They change into comfortable loungewear. Breakfast is a casual, comfortable affair -- coffee, fresh diced fruit, and toast with almond butter. A few chores are done and it's before Hannibal can begin cooking dinner that Will can't wait any longer. He joins Hannibal in the kitchen, pleased to see Hannibal looking relaxed and more scruffy and the latter being entirely Will's doing. 

"I want to know," Will says, coming to lean on the counter. "I've opened myself up to you, I've been seen... You need to return the favor. This evening. Tonight. Your choice when and where."

* * *

Despite the looming threat of Will's second request, the day is not unpleasant. While everything is colored in the hint of what is to come, Hannibal does not allow the knowledge to rob him of his enjoyment. Instead he goes about his day, making a light breakfast, doing chores around the house, sitting with Will to read, and even drawing out his sketchbook once or twice to relax. It is not an unpleasant experience, and Hannibal basks in the comfort of the rest of the day, of Will by his side. 

The issue is that Hannibal knows what is going to come, and so despite how pleasant a day it is - the roughness of his cheeks notwithstanding - when Will steps into the kitchen as Hannibal starts on dinner, the words do not come as a surprise. Hannibal stills. He listens. Then he slides his eyes closed as a frisson of bitterness and something akin to panic race through his heart. He still swallows it back though, and he nods, not answering verbally. Will is correct, after all. Much as Hannibal does not wish to say anything regarding his nightmare - still as fresh in his mind as it had been that night - Will has bared himself. Will has peeled back the layers of his skin, his muscle, sinew, bone, and soul for Hannibal to bury himself within, to tear pieces out to sustain himself before setting into the warmth. Will has allowed himself to be weak in ways that Hannibal has not. In this, awful as it is, it is only fair.

Dinner is, therefore, a tense, somber affair. Hannibal doesn't taste the food as he and Will eat, and while the affair is amiable and as comfortable as it can be, Hannibal is more or less quiet. A part of him wishes to gather his thoughts. Another wishes Will to forget his request, but such a thing isn't possible.

It is nearly eleven when Hannibal finally makes his decision. He and Will are in the sitting room, a book open on Hannibal's lap while Will reads something on Hannibal's tablet. They are quiet, and despite the wine on the end table, Hannibal knows that it will never be enough. He sighs, draws in another deep breath, and then definitively shuts the book he'd been reading with a heavy, weighted sound.

"In bed," he says, quietly, and the lack of strength in his voice is likely a red flag. He is tense, his shoulders rigid and lips thin, and something akin to resentment burns hotly within. Yet Hannibal still stands decisively and, after a moment, he reaches a hand out for Will, his expression guarded but his actions at least willing. 

Hannibal wets his lips. "Please."

* * *

Will doesn't assume "the talk" is going to happen in the kitchen while Hannibal cooks nor will it happen over dinner. He suspects after a nightcap, maybe. But perhaps in bed. It doesn't matter where, it only matters that it happens. Sure, Will is a little afraid that he's opening up a can of worms here. What if he fucks up? Says the wrong thing? Does the wrong thing? What then?

He dislikes making a big deal about it. Will understands that people need their privacy, their secrets. Lovers shouldn't demand that everything be laid bare between themselves... And yet Will knows this isn't an issue about a privacy Will is attempting to impede on. This is Hannibal trying to shield him from the uncomfortable, Hannibal trying to cover up something unsightly.

And all Will wants is to be trusted enough to see and feel whatever Hannibal thinks is ugly and painful.

They do dinner. They clean up. They drink and read and the hours pass. Will tries his damnedest to not get antsy. Hannibal had nodded in the kitchen. Hannibal wouldn't let him down. They're on the same couch, a little space between them but not much. When Hannibal's book closes, Will knows that Hannibal has resigned himself to his fate.

Hannibal doesn't look or sound good and nerves flare up in Will. He takes the offered hand and tries to be strong and fine for the both of them. He can do this. 

"Of course," Will agrees and presses a quick kiss to Hannibal's stubbled cheek before they head upstairs. Upon entering their room Will strips down to his boxers and then flicks on the side lamp. 

He pulls back the covers and climbs into bed. "Talk to me, baby," Will murmurs.

* * *

The issue with the conversation is not that Hannibal doesn't wish to share his nightmare. It's that the nightmare requires _context_ , and he has never before gifted another context like Will is asking of him. The memories creep upon him like feral creatures, fracturing shadows with hungry maws and wild, starved eyes. So as Hannibal offers Will his hand and Will takes it, Hannibal does what he can to remain stoic despite the tension thrumming through him. It burns low in his heart, seeping its poison out into his muscles until everything is tense enough to lose its give. He still leads Will upstairs, though. He accepts Will's kiss - though hardly feels it - and leads the way to where Hannibal believes it might be easier to converse. Yet when he steps foot into what had been a once-warm and comfortable haven only the night before, there is little comfort to be found. 

Will undresses, and Hannibal understands. Will is both laying himself bare and offering contact. This is not to be something he faces alone, and yet the task still feels daunting. So as Will quietly begins to settle into bed, Hannibal stiffly reaches up and undoes the small buttons on his shirt. He is methodical, as if drawing on routine to offer resolve, but the endeavor is fruitless. He undresses quietly, and when he is as dressed as Will is, Hannibal watches as Will turns back the blankets and then beckons him in.

He goes, stiffly settling down into the space next to Will. He lets Will draw the blankets up over him, though Hannibal does not lay down. He reclines back against the headboard, as if the idea of laying back is too much vulnerability. 

Even after Will's quiet prompt, Hannibal is silent, his jaw tight. Tension thrums through him, and yet when he finally manages to look over at Will - at the concern and curiosity and hesitance there - he wonders how this conversation will change the way Will views him. No one has ever _known_ him before. Perhaps it is fitting that Will is the first - and only - person to be given this right. For it _is_ Will's right, especially after everything. He draws in a deep breath.

"I did not lie when I told you of what I dreamed. Being alone. Blood on snow. But... contextually that is vague. My nightmare wasn't abstract. It was... a flashback, you could say. You know I dislike the cold. You don't know _why_. But you soon will," Hannibal adds, his tone hollow. "With that in mind, do you wish me to continue?"

* * *

Maybe this is what partners do. Maybe this is what lovers do. They try to offer comfort, try to be strong and stable and hold out a hand and welcome their equal to be next to them and _trust_. They become each other's refuge, each other's _home._

Will is scared that he is going to mess this up, but he has to try. Hannibal has tried for him, bent backward and forward and endured much so Will isn't going to cut himself short. He can do this. He knows skin contact helps Hannibal. He knows many things about Hannibal now. He knows that Hannibal is struggling but he won't run away. Hannibal undresses and joins him. He knows Hannibal finds the support of sitting up against the headboard a better alternative than laying down. Will positions his pillow against the headboard and sits next to Hannibal, their sides touching and the warmth of skin comforting for him too. 

He doesn't stare at Hannibal. Will doesn't repeat the question. He knows Hannibal will answer when he's ready. There's no rush in this. He remembers hallucinating that their bedroom was filling with blood, that the walls were bleeding... but Hannibal had been with him, had sheltered him from it. 

Will wants to do the same now.

And Hannibal does answer him. Blood on snow. The nightmare. Will had assumed that it was more than a mere nightmare, that it had to have some weight. Will is well-versed in nightmares, in how shreds of reality can pierce through them years later. Will reaches out and laces their closest hands together. He squeezes.

"I want you to continue. I want to know," Will says softly. "I want to know _you_. Don't hide. Not now. Not after everything."

* * *

Hannibal closes his eyes, Will's words gentle, but their impact still feels like claws over his skin. Despite that, he feels the curl of Will's hand, the warmth, the comfort, and he quietly leans into the warmth at his side, shifting his weight just enough to lean ever so slightly against Will. It is a mild support, but it's there. It's real and solid and _Will_ , and no matter how difficult this conversation will be, it is still Will by his side, still Will asking him. Hannibal breathes deeply, does what he can to settle his mind, and then lets the breath out softly. He nods.

"Then you shall know. In that case, it is... not the nightmare you wish as much as it is the events. You've told me so much. You have _given_ me so much..." Hannibal trails off and opens his eyes, looking sidelong at Will. "I suppose I owe you the same."

There's not a single part of him that is relaxed when he settles back against the headboard again, but Hannibal still takes his time. He knows that Will plans on waiting patiently, knows that Will has no desire to rush him. Hannibal takes the time he needs to put his thoughts together, to dig his claws into the tangled webbing in his memory palace and to rip down the barriers keeping him from that moment. He feels a sting of cold, and psychosomatic or not, he still tightens his hold on Will's hand.

"You visited my family's estate. You know where I grew up, and the thick forests that surround it. I am not certain how overgrown it was when you visited, or how much development had been done, but when I was a child, it was difficult for anyone to make their way to the estate, on foot, or by car." Hannibal wets his lips. "During the Lithuanian occupation - by the Soviets - my father was very outspoken against the government. At the height of the Cold War, my father protested the genocide within the country, how the Soviets were replacing people they deemed ill-fit for society, how they were 'relocating' those in more prestigious families or businesses to be replaced with those under the Soviet rule. Lithuania was slowly losing itself, and its culture, and he made no secret of that. Predictably, the Soviets did not appreciate his bravery."

Hannibal slowly tilts his head back, looking up at the smooth ceiling of the room. "I was no older than six. My sister, Mischa, was no older than two. My father gathered us up - and a few of his most trusted servants - and we fled into the surrounding woods. There had been attempts on my father's life at that point and he didn't wish to risk his family. He had a cabin deep in the woods, hidden beyond miles of winding, twisting, overgrown paths. So we went there, my parents, my sister and I, and the servants. It was..." Hannibal trails off. "It was not unpleasant. We lived there for a year. My father taught me to hunt, and what funds he had brought with him, he sent with the lesser-known servants to buy supplies. It was simple, but not unpleasant. My time was spent caring for my sister."

Hannibal sighs. "And yet in the end, it was not the Soviets we should have feared, but those the Soviets had cast aside. Defectors. Six of them found us. They slaughtered my parents and the servants in front of me, and chained my sister and I in the cabin as they searched for what they could sell later."

* * *

Will doesn't think Hannibal will hide. Hannibal is next to him. Hannibal is here and has already started this. This is a new path they're walking down, a new undertaking. Hannibal baring himself. Hannibal showing some vulnerability. Will swallows and resists fidgeting. He hopes he can handle this. He hopes he can do the right thing, whatever that right thing may be. He doesn't delude himself into believing that he's going to be able to _fix_ anything. That he can make things better. He can't fix the past. What's done is done. But Hannibal shielding himself, Hannibal operating like that... It's not right. It's not fair. 

Will can tell that Hannibal finds his presence at least a little comforting. It's about all Will can do. Will can remain by Hannibal's side, hold his hand, and not leave him, not let go. 

Will listens to Hannibal inform him that it's not the nightmare but the inspiring events. It makes sense to Will. He doesn't interrupt, he doesn't prompt Hannibal to get going with the story. His lover can take his time. And when Hannibal's hand tightens around his own, Will knows Hannibal will begin soon.

He listens as Hannibal revisits the past, bringing up the Lecter estate. It had been charming but eerie... He can imagine how it could have once looked -- grand and foreboding, caged in by lush forests. Will is still as Hannibal explains the historical context necessary. Being that Lithuania is a smaller country, Will isn't exactly up to date on its history. He'd had no clue about the Soviet's occupation, even. 

_'My sister, Mischa...'_

Will's jaw clenches. He takes a deep breath and tries to focus. This is significant. This is important. He feels a little antsy. This could be the single most important moment for Hannibal and he just hopes he doesn't fuck it up. 

A cabin in the woods. Hiding out. Hannibal caring for his sister. Not unpleasant.

Defectors. Slaughtered parents and servants. It screams of trauma, but Will knows there is worse coming. 

"I'm still here," Will says, his head turning to give Hannibal's shoulder a kiss. "Continue when you're ready."

* * *

The words feel stuck and solid in Hannibal's throat, not hollow, not easy to speak through. Yet had he not known that it would be the case? This was never going to be easy. This was never going to be pleasant. This is not _for_ him, but for Will. Will has bared himself so completely to Hannibal's eyes, to his whims. He has pulled back his own shrouds, his own trauma, has let Hannibal not only see it but also nuzzle carefully under the surface, has let him inside. This is reciprocity at its finest, and regardless of how wildly Hannibal's heart beats, regardless of how desperately he wishes to pretend that this is not happening, Will is owed this much. Will _deserves_ this much.

Hannibal feels the gentle press of Will's lips against his shoulder and the simple gesture feels like a concussive blow to his control. Something cracks, a thin fissure within, and it takes Hannibal a moment to continue, to fight through the swell of emotion. He turns just enough to lean into Will's space more, a silent request for contact. Then he begins again.

"Their plan was to turn us over to the Soviets, to claim that they had saved us from defectors and gain a rather hefty sum. They were after rewards, accolades. I remember them jeering about it between themselves as they dragged my parents' bodies from the house. I merely tried to keep Mischa safe, to keep her quiet. She was terrified." Hannibal swallows. "No one expected the storm that struck two days later, as the men were making themselves fat off of the food in the cabin."

Hannibal glances briefly at Will, perhaps a bid for comfort, perhaps a near-plea to be allowed to stay silent now, but he doesn't ask and he doesn't stop. It does take him time to continue, though. 

"It was a blizzard, the snow thick and tightly-packed. The snow climbed high beyond the roof, eclipsing the outside world. We awoke to a tomb. I simply held Mischa, tried to comfort her. The men broke furniture up so that they could start a fire and keep themselves from freezing. Their intention was to simply wait until the snow eased...but it didn't. 

"The food they had gorged themselves on steadily grew scarce and their leader attempted to begin rationing but it was far too late for that. They were scared, and because they were scared, they became violent. Those days I remember little. Merely sheltering my sister, calming her fear, and attempting to fight back but not being successful. They beat me for being insouciant," Hannibal adds, but there is no emotion in the words. It is clear that he doesn't care. 

"And more for fighting harder when they jeered at my sister, but the stench of their fear filled the cabin. I did not understand much, but I knew that they were afraid. I also knew that as the days passed, there was less and less food, until there was close to none."

* * *

Does Will possess the skill or knowledge to deal with this? Maybe not. Sure he's had sensitivity training, he has his imagination, his empathy... But it's never possibly been so imperative to do the right thing, to handle a situation properly, to care and comfort another. The stakes feel impossibly high. Hannibal isn't going to throw him to the wayside if Will fucks this up, but this is setting a precedent going forward.

Will doesn't want to let Hannibal down. Will doesn't want to be the one only needing and receiving support and care. He doesn't want his traits of recklessness and impulsivity to blare like a siren, warning Hannibal off. He wants to be able to provide refuge, for him to be able to be that shelter in the storm for Hannibal.

It's daunting. He hadn't felt like this with Molly. Not even close. Will kind of feels like he's performing open heart surgery and each miniscule action could be life-threatening. He wants to prove that he can handle Hannibal's heart, that calloused fingers will touch softly...

Will listens as Hannibal paints a bleak picture and he catches the quick sidelong glance that Hannibal sends him. Will sees the conflict, the struggle of wanting to stop, of not wanting to _ask_ to stop.

But after a long moment Hannibal continues and a snowstorm is mentioned. Realization dawns on Will... Why Hannibal has never cared for the cold or the snow... Will tries to not imagine a smaller, younger Hannibal fighting off desperate men, attempting to protect his frightened sister and being punished severely for it. He doesn't want to imagine the fear, the cold, the aching of empty stomachs, the chaos and the growing frenzy--

It's only when Hannibal stops and silence settles over him, that Will refocuses. Will squeezes Hannibal's hand and this time it's more for him. The story is drawing to a close but it's too late to back down now.

"Go on," Will encourages. "You're almost done."

* * *

Hannibal doesn't want to continue. While he's aware that Will needs to know, the reality feels crippling. It's the last few steps which are often the most difficult and Hannibal can feel the weight of the words in his chest. The gentle squeeze to his hand is focusing enough, but Hannibal still doesn't _want_ to continue. He will, but only because he feels that Will deserves to know, to understand. He'd already had one epiphany when Hannibal had mentioned the storm - Hannibal hadn't missed the look in Will's eyes - but Hannibal doesn't want to guess how Will might react to _knowing_. 

So he doesn't guess. Instead he draws a steadying breath, and goes on, his voice virtually toneless. "The human body can survive without food for awhile, but children feel the effects faster than most. We had water in the form of the snow, but food itself grew so scarce that everyone in the cabin felt it, Mischa most of all. I did what I could, gave her what few scraps I was given save when I could no longer handle my own hunger, but bit by bit, we began to starve. She was young, terrified, and try as I might, I couldn't calm her. When she had the energy, she cried, and I bore more than one beating for attempting to protect her from their wrath."

Hannibal closes his eyes. Yet instead of an attempt to shut Will out, he breathes slowly, giving Will's hand a solid squeeze. Reassurance. 

"I cannot remember how long it was, but there came a day where Mischa began to cry and wouldn't stop. She cried herself to sleep, then woke and began anew. Any attempt I made to quiet her failed, and the men grew enraged. They--" Hannibal's jaw sets. "They threatened her. Then when I couldn't quiet her, their leader came and wrenched her from my hands. I fought. I bit. I struggled to get to her, but I was weak, and my memory is... lacking then. He kicked my head and I remember only shapes and screams...

"When I woke, Mischa was gone. I was near death. I simply remember one of the men scrounging up a bowl of broth which he set in front of me. They were eating something. The snow outside was beginning to melt, so I assumed they'd found a frozen carcass outside... I thought nothing of it as I drank what I was given. It was only later that... that I understood. When the snow had finally abated enough to allow us to leave, I... saw her. I tripped over her leavings. Not even her _remains_ ; there was far too little left of her to be called that. They'd slaughtered her like a pig, with an axe. Her blood turned the snow red. Red--" Hannibal's voice breaks, though only for a moment. 

"Red on white. Blood on snow. I understood then. They'd boiled her bones for the broth they fed me."

* * *

Being almost done won't be much of a reprieve for Hannibal. Will knows this. The story has been steadily building, nearing its climax, and Will also knows it will be harder for Hannibal to deliver the final pieces. And Will can intuit where this is leading. He doesn't _need_ Hannibal to flesh out the details for him but Will wants Hannibal to. No, he _needs_ Hannibal to trust him with this knowledge, with this delicate shard of vulnerability Hannibal has kept hidden away from the world for many years. 

If Will were to be telling such a story, he likely would have skipped through much of the details and tried to get to the main event. That's just one of the differences between Hannibal and him. Hannibal doesn't jump to the end, no. His words have painted a grisly picture and Will doesn't feel good in any regard. The truth isn't always good. He holds Hannibal's hand tightly as the story draws to a gruesome end.

Will doesn't say anything. He reflects on the horror and revelation of Hannibal unknowingly eating who he'd fought so hard to protect. _Mischa..._ Her very name seems like a curse Will doesn't dare to utter. He doesn't try to placate Hannibal either. It won't be okay. There's nothing Will can say or do to make it better. What's done is done, the wound afflicted and it's festered and scarred into something gnarled. Will is no doctor. No healer.

But he is a lover. 

With a slight wince, he gets to his knees and comes to straddle Hannibal, sitting on his thighs and facing him. Will places his hands on Hannibal's shoulders and grasps tightly. 

"Thank you for telling me," Will murmurs. "If I would have known... I would have made him suffer far longer."

* * *

There is more to the story. Hannibal hasn't mentioned how he escaped, nor has he mentioned the fire in the cabin and the death of one of the men. As he sits there, he _could_ go on, could tell Will that he'd returned to the cabin when he'd been in his twenties and he'd found the dog tags of the men left behind. He could tell Will how he'd hunted down every last one of them. He could tell him about his life after that, his first real kill, the first time he'd voluntarily eaten human flesh. So many firsts, so much information that has long been left unsaid. Hannibal could tell Will all of it.

And he will. If Hannibal has told him this much, he will tell Will everything in due time. Not in one sitting, and not after such a visceral, gutting memory. Not while Hannibal feels the sharp claws of disgust and rage and regret tearing at the inside of his throat like needles. It's not the right time.

Will must understand. Hannibal doesn't expect him to. He's not withdrawn, though he wants to be. Yet instead of retreating in upon himself and shutting Will away, Hannibal sits there, his jaw clenched, breathing past each small spike of agony as his foundation struggles to reform under him. He's only just managed the bare minimum when he feels Will's warmth shift beside him. It is honestly a shock when Will turns to him, when Hannibal suddenly feels his weight settle in on his lap. He hadn't noticed Will gearing up to move, which should be damning enough.

However, the grasp to his shoulders, the way Will's voice is soft but earnest, the look in his eyes, all of it does what it can to try to calm the tumultuous memories in Hannibal's mind. His jaw tightens, his lips thin and pale from the force of Hannibal's tension. Yet when Will continues - mentioning that he would have made _him suffer_ , Hannibal goes very still.

He quickly thinks back, but... no. He'd never told Will about his actions. To his knowledge, they have only spoken once about Chiyoh's prisoner. It had been a conversation about transformation and elevation. That Will has put two and two together so effortlessly is what finally makes Hannibal smile, though it is a wry, bitter thing that looks more like a grimace than not.

"My cunning, rapacious boy. Very little ever gets by you," Hannibal says softly, barely a whisper between them. 

His hands lift then, and Hannibal knows that Will won't mention the tremble in them as he presses them to Will's back, hesitates, and then tightens his hold, drawing Will in closer. There's but a breath between them and then Hannibal's hands curl, his nails digging carefully against the warm planes of Will's back. Hannibal leans in and presses his forehead to Will's shoulder, clutching him close. 

"If he was to die, having him be a sacrifice to your Becoming is the way I would have chosen."

* * *

Will knows enough. He knows the end to Mischa's story and the antecedent to Hannibal's developing pathology. Will knows why Hannibal detests the cold, why the nightmare had shaken Hannibal and plagued him. Will now understands the significance of red on white, blood on snow. Of course this is but one chapter of Hannibal's life. A significant one, yes, but there exists many more Will hasn't flipped through. Will could press for Hannibal to continue, to explain the outcome, how Hannibal escaped and found refuge -- how Hannibal survived.

But Will doesn't ask and he doesn't try to order it either. Will is more than content at what Hannibal has given to him, what Hannibal has shared with him. It feels like another rare gift, but this time Will has readily received it.

Hands press against his back and Will sighs at the slice of relief that cuts through him at Hannibal touching him. He lets Hannibal pull him in closer and Will can't help but shudder as nails dig into his skin. It's Hannibal and it's intimacy, Hannibal all but clings to him, his head tucked against Will's shoulder. Will's distantly aware that he's apparently sporting half a boner from this.

_'If he was to die, having him be a sacrifice to your Becoming is the way I would have chosen.'_

Will feels his dick harden further and it's a little embarrassing, but he can't do anything about his body's responses. He's apparently turned on by Hannibal being vulnerable with him. (No, he doesn't want to think about what that could imply.) 

"Thank you," Will breathes out, his hands lifting to bury in Hannibal's hair and grip.

* * *

Hannibal's world has narrowed in on touch and scent alone. His eyes close as his fingers press against Will's bare back, and Hannibal doesn't doubt that Will is going to wear bruises from the sheer force of Hannibal's grip later on. It is strikingly vulnerable, a situation that Hannibal has never let himself be in before. Sexual intimacy is a step removed. Yes, it requires transparency and openness, and yes, it is strikingly vulnerable, but there is no _proof_ that physical intimacy should cross the line into emotional vulnerability. There always exists the chance that one might hold back. But as Hannibal sits there, Will on his lap, his skin warm and his muscles solid and real, Hannibal can feel honest vulnerability clawing at him.

He doesn't fault Will for the scent of arousal that slides between them. Were their positions reversed, Hannibal knows he would feel the same. Vulnerability and pain and sadism are a triad, and his beautiful boy is growing into a different kind of sadism. Hannibal breathes in Will's scent, noting the arousal, and while he isn't hard himself (given the subject matter), he can feel the satisfaction that Will's need brings with it. Hannibal doesn't reprimand him. He doesn't draw back. Instead he presses his face to the crook of Will's neck and shoulder and stays there, clutching, touching, scenting, allowing himself to become awash in Will's presence.

This is more than an airing of secrets. This had been a test. For Will, it had been a test to see if Hannibal would trust him enough to share his secrets. For Hannibal, it had been a test to ensure that Will could _be_ trusted with vulnerability after the fiasco in the kitchen. Mostly it had been to place them on even ground for one of the first times. The satisfaction Hannibal feels is almost blinding.

So when Will's hands slide up and gently bury in Hannibal's hair, he doesn't protest. When Will _grips_ , the breath that Hannibal lets out is sharper and tight. He winds his arms around Will, touching old scars and warm skin.

"What would you have me do?" Hannibal asks, his lips brushing over Will's skin. He's aware of the impact of the question. Will has once again earned the _right_ to direct, to dominate, if he so wishes. He's earned Hannibal's trust.

* * *

Naturally this hadn't been Will's plan. He doesn't necessarily _want_ to throw anything sexual into the mix after such an important conversation, but apparently his body has other ideas. While they hadn't gotten off earlier, it's not like he's some desperate teenager. He'd never been this sexually active with Molly, but in many ways being sexual with Hannibal is still new, it's still like a treat. Until Hannibal, Will had only been with women and sex with Hannibal has been another experience entirely. Will can't help but long to connect like this, to make Hannibal feel better, to bring about pleasure. He's more comfortable with such things than dealing with the aftermath of a conversation like this.

Hannibal is warm and firm underneath him, smelling and feeling familiar, but still enjoyable. Will does love this man. He fucking does and that they're still together after everything they've gone through, Will knows without a doubt that this bond is for life. It doesn't matter if no one else knows it, it doesn't matter that there are no rings, _they_ know it.

Will isn't going to force anything. This isn't about his needs. Hannibal is the one who's gone through an emotional upheaval of sorts by sharing this trauma. Will thinks he's done well, but he doesn't want to fuck up _now._

_'What would you have me do?'_

_Oh._ Will understands immediately what Hannibal is _really_ saying, what Hannibal is giving to him. It's another opportunity to be dominant, another chance... And Will hadn't been so certain that he'd get one after the fiasco in the kitchen. Christ. He's lucky. Will pulls Hannibal's headup so he can look into Hannibal's eyes. 

"I'd have you naked, tied up and at my mercy," Will states calmly. "I want to touch you, work you up... That okay, baby?"

* * *

Is Hannibal ready for this change in direction? He isn't sure. The ghosts of his memories still linger and hiss like acid against his skin, but Will's touch - his warmth and his weight - are comfortable and settling. Maybe Hannibal wouldn't have allowed this had the request been simple sex, but while there is a sexual component to the agreement that they're both setting up now, that's not _all_ it is. Despite how rough and insistent Will had been the night that had prompted this, when Hannibal had been wrapped in his nightmare and awoken to snow outside of the window, he can still remember the touch of Will's hands, the way Will had not left him to flounder without grounding. He knows that Will is capable of care. 

Given how careful Will is when he pulls Hannibal's head up by his hair to meet his eyes, Hannibal knows Will can handle this. So despite the shadows in his gaze, the lingering snarls in his chest, the hint of broken cobwebs dangling from a place that never should have been touched, Hannibal meets Will's eyes without faltering. He looks at him and sees that Will understands. Good.

The words perhaps don't carry the same impact they would have had Hannibal's mind been clear of stress, but he still feels a hot twist of something in his chest. It is half-sexual, yes, but it's the concept of Will's touch that truly entices him. Hannibal swallows and allows himself to indulge, to imagine what that might look like. The thought of being vulnerable still holds some uncertainty, but he's already been the most vulnerable he'll ever be. And is Will not worth it?

"Dahlia," Hannibal says softly. "And Kairos. I remember. Yes, Will, that's okay." 

Hannibal quickly looks at Will's eyes, studying the brilliant blue of them even in this lower lighting. One hand slides up to gently curl into Will's hair, and it's with care that Hannibal pulls Will in closer, taking control only for long enough to press a kiss to Will's lips. It isn't biting, nor is it chaste. It's something deeper and halting. A _thank you_ without words.

"All I would ask of you is to let me see you, and to not break contact. My... emotional foundation is not as strong as it normally would be."

* * *

Will doesn't know if this is necessarily a good activity to move into. A part of him still feels wary of trusting himself with domination again. He may not have fucked up with listening and supporting Hannibal, but there is always a chance he can mess up now. 

But there will always be that chance. Being alive and being in contact with others comes with that risk. Will used to think that Hannibal was impenetrable, but he knows better now. Hannibal is still human. He may think and feel differently than many people, but Hannibal had still been a child, had still had hopes and dreams and nightmares. 

And he still has nightmares now. They both do. Love doesn't fix everything and neither does sex, but intimacy can be a balm and Will is hoping he can offer it to Hannibal. 

He wants to worship Hannibal's body. He wants their room to become a sanctuary for indulgence, for pleasure and sensation. And really it's not the room that matters, it's _them_. They're going to leave soon anyhow. It's inevitable. But their home is within each other. Two halves forming a whole. It's not in Hannibal's nature to want to showcase any vulnerability, to _let_ himself be vulnerable, so naturally, Will wants this. He wants to coax it out, but only for himself to bear witness to the act. Hannibal has already exposed himself and Will wants to push him, to prove that he can handle this too. 

Their safewords are repeated and Will gives a nod. No matter what he may want, _Dahlia_ and _Kairos_ stop everything. Their safewords are a promise that binds them together. He kisses Hannibal back, languid and enjoyed, his cock aching but Will ignores it. He fully plans on taking his time. When Hannibal gives his request, Will understands. No blindfolding. Hannibal wants to see him. To feel him. To be connected. Will wants that too. 

"Of course," Will murmurs. "But give me a minute. Need to get stuff." He gives a reassuring kiss to Hannibal's cheek as he climbs off his lap.

Will makes a beeline for his dresser. "Strip and lay on your back please," Will says as he rummages in a drawer and produces a softer silk tie that's his but that Hannibal had purchased for him. When Hannibal complies, Will gives an appreciative whistle and works down his own boxers, leaving them on the floor before he gets back on the bed. 

"Going to tie your wrists to the headboard, okay? You tell me if it's too tight."

* * *

While Will holds some concern over allowing himself the freedom to dominate Hannibal again, Hannibal holds no such reservations. Yes, Will had only listened this past hour; it's feasible that _that_ is all Will is focusing on. Yet that is not what has prompted Hannibal's decision. Will hadn't just listened. He'd waited. He'd calmly indicated his desire earlier that morning for Hannibal to explain his nightmare, and he'd been patient, delivering an ordered request and then allowing Hannibal to choose his own time to follow that order. The sheer patience of it is so unlike Will's earlier frustration and it shows a deeper understanding of what domination truly holds. 

Hannibal has no interest in submitting to the man in the kitchen, caustic and accusing. But to _this_ one, with his soft touches and careful instructions? Hannibal believes that he would give Will the world were he to simply ask for it.

So while he doesn't enjoy the sensation of Will drawing _away_ , Hannibal doesn't protest. He feels the separation like a lash and he knows that he is truly not in the best place to be doing this. He's vulnerable, but his vulnerability is not without consequences. If he gives himself to Will like this and Will pushes too hard, it _will_ leave a lasting mark. Will likely doesn't trust himself with this task, not fully. Hannibal does. So he bears the separation despite the twist in his chest, and when Will gives him a parting instruction, Hannibal doesn't hesitate to comply.

He eases himself down on the bed, feeling the sensation of the silken sheets against his skin. Then Hannibal lifts his hips and works his boxers down, drawing the fabric down each leg to remain mindful of what he'd been asked to do. He leans back on the bed and it doesn't take him long to find a comfortable position. Will's answering whistle breaks the building silence, and Hannibal is somewhat surprised by the fondness that curls through him at the sound of it. Some of the tension leaves him as he looks over at Will, his gaze softer, and there is appreciation in his eyes as Will strips for him. Hannibal doesn't miss Will's arousal, obvious and strong, and he locks the knowledge away. Will likes his vulnerability.

"I will tell you if it's too tight," Hannibal confirms when Will walks over to him. Though, despite the trust in his voice, Hannibal cannot help but be slightly surprised at the sheer _care_ in Will's touch as he takes one of Hannibal's hands. 

Hannibal watches quietly as Will directs him, moving Hannibal's right hand up to the spindles on the headboard. Hannibal recalls gripping them the first night that Will had tested his domination, recalls the pain and the pleasure and the thrill, and he inwardly applauds Will for the idea. Using engrams to elicit a response is clever. Hannibal can feel his pulse picking up despite how raw he feels, and as Will gently wraps the silk tie around Hannibal's wrist and ties it to the headboard, Hannibal makes a point to graze his fingertips over Will's knuckles, a light, appreciative touch.

"I trust you." 

It hardly needs to be said, but Hannibal says it anyway as Will moves to his other hand, leaving Hannibal to test the give to the first tie. While firm, there is enough give to it that he _could_ get out if he wanted to, but it would be a challenge. Hannibal doesn't miss the nautical knot used either, and the sight of it draws a small smile to his lips. 

* * *

Hannibal had been the one to first hold the spindles of the headboard. It had been a part of Hannibal's fantasy for Will, but Hannibal had demonstrated it once Will had asked. Will vividly remembers that night, the fucking collar and leash fashioned from a belt, taking Hannibal without a condom. He remembers the discovery of Jack's scar and the possessive anger he'd felt. He remembers the threat of killing anyone that would dare to hurt Hannibal. Will remembers coming inside of Hannibal and then licking his hole, licking _into_ Hannibal. He remembers imagining them biting flesh together, ripping and bloody.

Last night, Will had held onto the spindles of his own volition. He let Hannibal make love to him. Will had asked for it, in French even. Hannibal had listened to him, to every plea and confused direction. They've come a long way. In this moment, Hannibal trusting him again, Hannibal showing vulnerability despite the discomfort, it means _everything._ It means more than Will can put into words. He's humbled. Honored. Lucky. Blessed. _Loved_. _Trusted_.

Hannibal confirms the latter and Will feels the good kind of hurt lance through him and he thinks it might be his new drug. Hannibal is spread out for him, naked and wrists bound to the headboard with an expensive silk tie. It's a sight that Will can't help but marvel at. Every inch of skin revealed to him, every soft, vulnerable spot, every scar, Will takes it all in. 

"Je t'ai," Will murmurs, coming to rest on his knees next to Hannibal. (I have you.) Will's fingertips caress Hannibal's cheek, down his jaw, enjoying the day-old growth of facial hair. Hannibal is so goddamn beautiful like this. 

Vulnerable. Present. Willing. Trusting.

Will leans over and wastes no time in licking at the nearest nipple while his fingers pinch and massage the other nipple into hardness. He laps at the bud, alternating between licking and sucking on it. He knows Hannibal is sensitive here and Will enjoys the older man's reactions. He'd claimed to want to work Hannibal up, and work up Hannibal is what Will is going to shoot for. He growls before his teeth graze the hardening peaked skin and tugs.

* * *

There is something erotic about the act of Will's hands slowly restricting his movement. Call it affection or intimacy or trust, or any combination of all of those things, but while Hannibal's mind is still somewhat clouded by the echoing chill of blood on snow, Will's hands are gently beginning to ease those shadows away. Like a warm gust blowing away oppressive clouds, Will's hands move from Hannibal's wrists and then move instead to his face. The soft whisper of promise, the reassurance, and the gentle touch to Hannibal's stubbled cheek have him aching. Will's fingers touch and stroke, tracing the line of his cheeks, down to the strength in his jaw, and Hannibal doesn't hesitate to lean into Will's touch, trusting and appreciative. He doesn't need to speak to confirm the reverence in this moment, for Will's touch alone is almost halting, it's so careful. Hannibal doesn't doubt that Will is going to do precisely as he'd said.

He watches, warmth in his gaze, as Will shifts and then leans down over him, and while Hannibal would normally be attempting to control, to predict each movement before Will could hope to make it, he doesn't this time. He lets Will act independently. So when the heat of Will's tongue finds one of his nipples, Hannibal's breath catches, then fades into a soft sigh as Will's other hand comes into play. Hannibal doesn't close his eyes, doesn't attempt to narrow his focus in on the touch to his chest. Instead he looks down, watching as Will settles above him to give him pleasure, for that is precisely what Will is attempting to do. He knows that Hannibal likes this, and there is no selfish reason to be doing this for him. 

Emotion strikes Hannibal before arousal does, though with Will, those two states of being are often interwoven. Hannibal feels the soft slide of silk over his wrists and silently takes in the look of care on Will's face. Somehow the existence of both make the emotion sharper and thicker in Hannibal's chest, but so too do they increase the pleasure. Hannibal shivers, and when Will sucks gently at one nipple, he arches slightly, moving into the touch without conscious thought.

"You wound me in irreparable ways," Hannibal breathes, and while he isn't hard, he does feel the flicker of arousal beginning to edge through the shroud of trauma that had suffused him only minutes before. He watches Will and breathes in his scent, soaks up his care, and Hannibal cannot help but feel cauterized by this incredible man. "And you stake your claim on each residual scar. My beautiful boy."

It's the graze of Will's teeth that finally draw a rougher reaction from Hannibal's throat. The sudden pinch of pain followed by the _tug_ has his head falling back against the pillow, a low groan spilling from his lips. He doesn't need to look to see the way his nipple has flushed, aching from Will's attention. 

* * *

Will used to want to fuck Hannibal up. To mess his hair, to scratch and bite and see the effects of himself upon Hannibal. Will wanted to be a devastating storm. He'd wanted to wreak destruction. He'd been eaten up by conflict and bitterness and needed to lash out. And while calamity can be beautiful, Will doesn't need the disaster now.

It's soft things that wound Hannibal. It's Will's attention and affection. It's Will being genuine. Transparent. It's shattering the glass between them. They no longer need blades to maim. Oh no, no, no. It's the exquisite intensity of connection and emotion that rends. It's the matters of the heart. Of love.

Will may have become aroused by their former position, by Hannibal opening up to him, but Will isn't doing this to achieve his own selfish aims. There are no words he can say to make the wound of trauma better. But he can gift Hannibal with pleasure, with distraction. So Will endeavours to succeed in this.

Nipples predictably respond to the stimuli and when Hannibal speaks, the corners of Will's lips curl into a smile. They're on the same path then and it's more than a little bit gratifying. Will is filled with purpose. 

"Shall I taste each scar, Hannibal?" Will asks. It's a rhetorical question; they both know that he will do it.

Brown's scars are, for now, not easily accessible. But the scar on Hannibal's cheek definitely is. Or Dolardyde's gunshot wound. Will wastes no time in kissing down Hannibal's chest until he meets the scar on Hannibal's abdomen. Will kisses around the scar before placing a direct kiss on top of it. He then licks over it slowly. 

"If I could, I would lick your wounds better," Will says quietly.

* * *

Will's words rend through him like blades, individually crafted to sever skin and fascia and bone. Hannibal has been vulnerable with Will before, has allowed him everything up until this point, but this... this is different. Hannibal has never allowed Will tenderness following vulnerability, and the impact it has on him is destructive. For while Hannibal's body registers the pleasure, it is his mind - his heart - that aches the most. The very thought of Will tasting each scar, of laying claim to every supposed imperfection and accepting everything is enough to make Hannibal's eyes sting, but there is no shame in his eyes as he gazes down at Will, watching him with open awe.

Hannibal feels each press of Will's lips to his skin like a brand of their own making. His pulse is steady but quicker in his chest as Will's lips slide down his skin, but it isn't until Will focuses his attention on the gnarled, off-white scar on his abdomen that Hannibal's breath catches audibly. While the scar has softened slightly over the last few months, it is still deadened in places but sensitive in others, and sensitive in a way that is almost _too_ sharp. That coupled with the fact that the scar itself is ugly (for it had been a large exit wound) Will's attention feels like abrasion. So when he licks at it slowly, ensuring that Hannibal feels every second of it, Hannibal's exhale is choked, the muscles of his abdomen clenching and twitching with the rush of sensation. 

"Will," Hannibal whispers, and the word is thick with emotion. His hands curl against the ties around his wrists, knuckles bumping against the spindles of the bed. Were his hands free, Hannibal knows he would have curled his fingers into Will's hair and held him there, would have asked for his teeth despite the sting. Right now Hannibal isn't certain which is worse - the physical sting or the heavy, loving ache of emotion in his chest. He swallows thickly and shifts, lifting one leg enough to brush his shin gently against Will's side. It's all Hannibal can do at present.

"I would let you. There is very little I wouldn't permit you, _mylimasis_. Not were you to ask for it. How you bring me to ruin... and yet still you worship just as I do."

* * *

Scars are generally considered unsightly, blemishes to be ashamed of and hide. Will has collected a few unsavory looks from the scars on his face, for example. Some simply curious, some downright nosy and more judgmental. A great deal of Will's scars involve Hannibal in one way or another. The graze of a bullet from Jack intervening to save Hannibal, the slice of a knife from Hannibal, a sawblade of misguided forgiveness, Cordell's scalpel, a Dragon's attack... And now a few bite marks that have scarred.

Hannibal has gained scars from his involvement with Will too. Matthew Brown cutting his wrists, the tear of a meat hook, a bullet, a deadly dance with a Dragon... Their bodies have endured pain and depict quite the story. It's a story of pain and loss, of betrayal and hope. 

And they've made it. They've fucking made it. Despite the odds, despite the uphill journey, Hannibal is here with him, tied to their bed, even. Willingly submitting to him -- trusting him. It's everything. Like an absolution Will hadn't known he'd asked for or needed.

But he does. He needs Hannibal and he needs Hannibal to trust him. Will basks in the subtle but very-much-there responses, the way Hannibal's muscles clench, the choked sound that's given. It's both arousing and significant to have such an effect. Will feels the shift of Hannibal's leg brushing against his side. Right now, Hannibal can't do much in terms of touching back so Will isn't going to discourage what Hannibal _can_ do. 

_'How you bring me to ruin... and yet still you worship just as I do.'_

Will bites the edges of the scar and then pulls away, getting onto his knees and gazing down at Hannibal. "Jusqu'à notre fin," Will murmurs as he moves down on the bed, his hands sliding down Hannibal's hips to thighs. He'd said the same thing last night but it bears repeating. _(Until our end.)_ He brings his hands to the same shin and eases Hannibal's leg up, lifting to allow access to the scar that Jack had created on Hannibal's calf. Will leans down and first lets his nose stroke up the jagged scar. 

"Until our end, I'll worship." Will rubs his mouth against the raised tissue. It's half an apology for the kitchen incident and half in adoration. "Thank you for letting me do this." 

* * *

The graze of Will's teeth is sharp, and once, many months ago, it would have been dangerous. A snarling, frustrated beast lying in wait to lash out, to shift, _change._ That is who Will had been. Perhaps evidence of that man still exists. Perhaps in time Will might feel that pull, that restlessness again, but now it's different. _Now_ Hannibal feels the graze of Will's teeth against the ugly scar upon his abdomen and when Will bites, Hannibal only hisses and arches beneath him. There's pain, for it is sensitive, and a low dread, as it had been the closest that Hannibal had ever come to dying. Yet as Will's teeth press, Hannibal feels arousal pulse through him, feels the desire to have Will's teeth sink into his skin again despite the danger. 

Has this man not already changed him beyond repair? Has he not already torn into Hannibal's core and left him raw? Will _knows_ now, and yet instead of recoiling, instead of looking upon Hannibal with understanding and pity, his touch is sure, his lips hot and worshipful. Hannibal looks up at Will as he kneels above him, and Hannibal's remaining control takes a blow as Will's voice purrs out the promise from the other night. Hannibal swallows, and while the chill of memory remains, Will is quickly eclipsing it with care.

The touch to the thick, aching scar on his calf gives Hannibal pause, though he doesn't protest as Will coaxes him into raising his leg. Yet nothing can prepare him for the feeling of Will nuzzling against it, of the soft press of his lips. The sound that Hannibal lets out is clipped, nearly wounded, and he feels the silk ties cut into his wrists slightly as he tries to move them for the first time. The ache to bury his fingers into Will's hair and pull him into a kiss is so strong that Hannibal considers slipping out of the bindings on his own. 

He doesn't. Instead he watches, a flush to his skin, his eyes wider in awe, as Will worships the scar that had caused so much ire before. It aches still, and it still carries a bruise from Will's clever attack in the kitchen, but the press of Will's lips against the skin is as much apology as it is acceptance. Hannibal's eyes burn.

"Thank _you_ ," he says, and his voice is rougher, a light rasp as his muscles flex in Will's hand. He swallows, and he's not surprised to notice that he's growing hard from this gentle, adoring attention. 

"Will, please."

* * *

Will hears the groan of the wood as Hannibal's wrists pull. Hannibal could escape the makeshift bind if he truly wanted to. It hadn't been tied overly tight. There had been no need. It's more symbolic than anything and Will knows Hannibal must understand because Hannibal doesn't jerk free. There's a restlessness, of course. Hannibal wants to touch, he likely aches to reciprocate in some manner, but Hannibal also wants to give this to him. Hannibal _wants_ to submit. This is a gift for Will and Will _wants_ this gift. 

Is this how it's going to be now? Passing control and submission back and forth between them? Palms outstretched, honesty and transparency instead of waiting blades? Walking in tandem, no glass separating them? Lines fully blurred, hearts in sync. Together.

It's equally terrifying and thrilling. More than anything, right now Will feels the absolute _gravity_ of this situation, of what they're becoming together. It's not only him that's changing, that's shifting and adapting and evolving. Will used to think of Hannibal as the unmovable rocky coastline and himself the tempestuous ocean, but even back then, Hannibal had said the bluff had been eroding...

Will drags his mouth along the raised edges of the scar, his stubble likely scratching along Hannibal's calf as well. The sound that escapes Hannibal is a fragile thing, the veritable wounded bird... And it would be so easy to crush - to crush Hannibal while he's vulnerable - but Will doesn't want to. Hurting Hannibal in such a way holds no appeal. It's the opposite, actually. 

Will wants to mend. To soothe. He wants to love this man. When Hannibal says please, Will looks up. He sees Hannibal's cock has begun to harden. While Will has not worshipped every scar, Will believes more tenderness might be too much right now. 

"Je t'ai," Will whispers and he lets his teeth drag along this scar lightly before gently placing Hannibal's leg back down on the bed. _(I have you.)_

"I'm going to suck you," Will states. 

He doesn't do this a lot. Hannibal is the one with the oral fixation, but Will wants to do it now. His hands come to Hannibal's thighs, indicating for Hannibal to spread his legs. While doing that, Will settles in between Hannibal's parted thighs. He leans down and he plans on taking his time, his hands bracing himself on Hannibal's hips. Will parts hs lips and his tongue gently licks along the half-hard length. He licks broadly, encouraging and indulgent.

* * *

This is nothing short of worshipful. Will's lips are soft, his stubble rough, and every touch, every press of his lips or scratch of his jaw send sensation rushing like an electric current through Hannibal's body. It's more than the physical; it's the acceptance. It is what he had not been certain even months ago that he might ever draw from this man. Blood from a stone. Heralded, prophesied, but never before seen. 

Yet now, as Will touches, as his hands stroke and his lips kiss, Hannibal watches Will's face as he moves. He's awed as he feels the press of such tenderness against a point of such contention. Hannibal's weakness, his desolation, the physical proof that Will had worked so deeply under his skin that he'd been unable to shake him. Will's anger. His attacks. His ridicule. Now all smoothed by the slow press of lips and stubble, as if scrubbing away the stain.

Teeth meet the scar on Hannibal's calf and the muscles flinch reflexively but his breath is nothing but exultant. It is also raw, his eyes stinging, his emotions tenuous at best. Hannibal can feel the knife's edge looming, that perfect place between _not enough_ and _too much._ Months ago, Will would have crossed over that point willingly, would have delighted in Hannibal's weakness, in the sight of the fissures under his surface. 

But no longer. Instead he'd kissed. He'd whispered. He'd scraped his teeth over the scar. And when Will gently tells Hannibal what he intends, Hannibal's resulting shiver is visceral.

He follows Will's instructions, spreading his legs when encouraged, making space for Will there just as he has so completely made space for Will in his life. Hannibal's muscles tremble with emotion and anticipation as Will settles, his hands on Hannibal's thighs. There is none of Will's earlier rush right now. There is no hastening to get this over with, to push himself. Hannibal remembers the debacle in the living room, remembers thrusting into Will's mouth involuntarily and triggering a flashback. This is not something Will does often for that very reason, which makes this all the more special.

So that first gentle touch of Will's tongue - hot, wet, and slow - punches the breath from Hannibal's lungs. He tenses, fighting the urge to chase the sensation, and instead he allows himself to relax back against the bed with a low sigh, the sound content. Will doesn't stop, but nor does he rush. Each touch of his tongue brings with it the most exquisite sensation, but it is the sight of him that truly rends Hannibal open. 

Will looks peaceful, and the knowledge combined rushes through Hannibal like fire. He lets his head fall back on the pillow, though he doesn't look away from Will. And he watches, awed, as Will tastes him. Bit by bit Hannibal feels himself hardening more and more, for the knowledge of what Will is doing is so achingly sweet. By the time sweat has started to glisten on Hannibal's skin, he's hard, his muscles trembling ever so slightly with the effort to stay still. 

* * *

Being down here, there is a particular masculine musk present, but it's Hannibal that only draws Will's focus. Genitalia is laughably vulnerable and fragile. They both have teeth that have torn flesh, but there are no snarling monsters here. There is nothing dark and sinister present at all, really. This moment is inescapably intimate, a sanctuary that accepts the damned. They make their own prophecies, sing their own psalms.

They worship.

And Will licks skin that has a salty tang to it, soft, hot skin that steadily hardens for him. He laps lovingly at Hannibal's semi-hard cock and Will is not deterred. He knows Hannibal is still trying to shake off the vestiges of the past, of red splashed on white, blood staining snow, of his sister's wails...

Will can be patient. Will can love and worship and let himself focus singularly on providing attention and support to Hannibal. So Will licks all over Hannibal's cock, the sides, the head, the underside. And his patience is rewarded, Hannibal's cock stirring and steadily hardening from Will's ministrations. Will glances up, wet lips pulling into a pleased smile. 

"Good, Hannibal. Perfect. Nice and hard for me," Will praises and he lets his palms rub soothingly over the tops of Hannibal's thighs before his right hand comes to wrap around the base of Hannibal's cock, holding it still. And Will leans down, parting his mouth and taking just the head inside. He sucks softly, letting his tongue swirl against the sensitive skin, against Hannibal's slit. Will's other hand moves to rest on Hannibal's stomach, his fingers splaying possessively over the area where Hannibal had cut into him all those years ago.

Will sucks lazily, in no hurry, with no clear goal in mind other than to provide pleasure. He bobs his head down further, enjoying the hot silken flesh of Hannibal's arousal. 

He worships.

* * *

Will's steady, gentle attention is a form of exquisite torture on its own, and one that Hannibal has no desire to draw away from. True, the shadows linger in his mind, and true, they will hold their grip upon him in the future. Though perhaps their trauma will not linger forever, for Hannibal has never shared the knowledge with another before, not even with Chiyoh. Will, however... is he not the one person who Hannibal believes deserves the information? Will shares it now, a burden halved, and it is the knowledge and the _care_ in Will's worship that finally breaks through the shadows in Hannibal's mind. Will's tongue is wet and hot, but it is the reverence in each lick, the spiritual rather than the physical, that truly rends Hannibal bare. 

By the time Will's praise comes, Hannibal is breathless with his arousal. He's hard, wet from Will's saliva and sensitized from such a long, steady build up. The desire to pull out of his restraints and instead pull Will up into a kiss is almost overwhelming but Hannibal resists. Instead he looks down, watching as Will praises him, as his palms rub along Hannibal's skin. And he watches, with eyes dark with arousal, as Will carefully takes him in hand and then leans in.

The pleasure of Will's mouth around the head of his cock is enough to shock the breath from his lungs. Hannibal shudders, feeling the gentle attention, the soft, worshipful sucking as Will _basks_. For there can be no other descriptor. Hannibal needs only to look down at him and the bliss in his expression is clear. Hannibal watches, lips parted and eyes hooded as Will suckles softly at his cock, as his tongue dances along his skin and presses where he's most sensitive. Hannibal's hands curl into sympathetic fists and he struggles to remain still, to not lift his hips, to not risk nudging his cock against the back of Will's throat. It is an exquisite torture of its own, but the _care_ is the sweetest. The sensation is wonderful, but watching Will preform, watching him tend to Hannibal's needs is beyond expectation.

Will is lazy with it, in no hurry to bring Hannibal to his end. This is as much for Will as it is for him, and it is that thought that finally rips a low, broken moan from Hannibal's throat, the muscles of his abdomen flexing under Will's hand as he struggles to remain still, to merely rest and indulge. And he's going to, save the desire to _act_ is quickly becoming overwhelming.

"Will," Hannibal manages, breathless and awed. "If I cannot touch you, would you... would you permit me to taste? Please."

* * *

Will had known that this would be difficult for Hannibal. Hannibal has never liked being controlled or being denied. Hannibal is a sensory creature, he thrives on being able to experience and indulge and Will has, more than once, denied Hannibal one or more senses. Hannibal can see him. Hannibal can feel him, but Hannibal cannot touch him. More than ever, Hannibal proves he is not content to be submissive or passive. Will can feel Hannibal shudder as he attempts to stay still. 

This is also a little risky because of their first foray into Will blowing Hannibal. Will is rather sensitive about gagging. Hannibal knows this, too. Hannibal can't thrust up. If Hannibal's wrists were free, he'd undoubtedly reach down and brush fingers through hair. Hannibal would touch whatever he could because Hannibal wants to worship too. Will understands, but the choice to submit isn't taken lightly by him. Hannibal may not have outright offered, but Hannibal had agreed. Will is going to prove that he can be trusted in this.

Will also wants to test Hannibal, to have him stretch and be pushed. And it's care and tenderness that push Hannibal and Will likes reading the tension in his lover's body. Hannibal is strung out and suffering pleasure beautifully. When Will finally elicits a low moan from Hannibal, he hums his approval. When Hannibal speaks, his words are a very clear plea. The word _taste_ has Will pulling away from Hannibal's cock. 

It has Will's mind reeling and he's moving without immediately answering. He's getting to his knees and then carefully swinging one leg over Hannibal's chest and straddling Hannibal with his ass facing toward Hannibal. This is something he couldn't see them doing months ago but now... Now Will thinks it's more than doable. 

"You wanna taste me, baby?" Will asks and it should be fairly clear what he's referring to. One hand remains on the bed, to the side of Hannibal's hip to support himself, but the other reaches back and Will spreads one ass cheek. He backs up, moving his ass closer but Hannibal will still have to lean forward to reach. 

* * *

Hannibal does not make his request with any specific act in mind. Thoughts vaguely slide through his mind, buzzing like electricity as Will's lips and tongue bring him pleasure. Hannibal feels dizzy with it, with the need to stay still, and it is purely restless energy that prompts his request. He doesn't care if Will turns and presents him with his cock, or if Will simply reaches up to slide his fingers close enough for Hannibal to taste. He can't use his arms as they're tied, and moving his legs would risk making Will gag. His mouth is all he can safely use, and so he asks. And while Will does still and draw away, Hannibal cannot read the look on Will's face until Will is suddenly acting.

Breathless, his cheeks ruddy with desire, Hannibal watches as Will straightens and then shifts up. There's movement on the bed as Will straddles him, swinging one leg over Hannibal's hips to face away from him. Hannibal's cock aches pleasantly at the realization, and Hannibal groans tightly, eyeing the thick line of Will's own hardness with relief. Though as Hannibal watches, he quickly realizes that Will _isn't_ moving close enough to reach. 

Instead he spreads his legs, his spine curled just enough. Hannibal quiets, still breathless, but when understanding finally takes root, his eyes widen and a rough, punched-out sound of pleasure escapes him. Immediately he can recall how it had felt, and somehow it feels intentional that Will is bringing this back _now_. When their first foray had been that cold night full of Hannibal's nightmares and their first true attempt at Will dominating. That Will has taken up the mantle once more and chosen _this_ to replicate that moment is so sweet that Hannibal briefly feels overwhelmed by it.

"Yes," he breathes, and there's emotion in his voice as Will settles above him. Hunger and emotion swirl within him like fire and as Hannibal watches Will bare himself, there is no hesitation as he flexes his own back. Thoughts of rocking up into Will's mouth are gone. 

Instead Hannibal leans up, guiding Will with soft murmurs of, "a little closer, beloved," and, "that's perfect," before he leans in. Hannibal lingers only so long as it takes him to fully appreciate this, and then he exhales a rough, reverent breath as he nuzzles one of his stubbled cheeks against Will's ass and licks hot and wet over his hole. Will's skin is clean and the intimacy is almost dizzying as Hannibal licks slow and wet, exhaling hotly against sensitive skin and throwing his restlessness into this new, _perfect_ task. It is only the knowledge that such sensitive sensation can be overwhelming that makes him take his time with this and not rush to thrust or _take_. 

* * *

It had been on a whim that Will had licked and tasted Hannibal's ass. Hannibal had been full of his come, even. It had also been during Will's first exploration into domination, after the nightmare that Hannibal had been so resistant to talk about... Perhaps it's fitting that they've returned to this, and it's Hannibal's turn to taste, to worship in this way.

It's still a little daunting to have his ass in Hannibal's face and on display. Will has never done anything quite like this before. When Hannibal had been on the receiving end, there had been a makeshift collar and leash on Hannibal and Will had just fucked him, just came in him... Will had seen Hannibal's leaking hole and just went for it. It had been an urge that he simply gave into. This is... Yes, it had started as a urge but there is more thought present - an acknowledgement - of what is going to be started here. Will is allowing this, physically and emotionally exposing himself in this fashion. It's exciting. It's significant.

Will heard the sound that Hannibal had made upon realizing what was coming next -- that Will wasn't simply going to let Hannibal taste his cock, but his ass instead. Will wants this. He wants to do this for Hannibal, for their dynamic to be changing and flexible. And Will lets Hannibal guide him back, Hannibal's words soft and heated. And then Will feels a hot exhale from Hannibal's mouth. Goosebumps break out over his skin as stubble is dragged against him. The knowledge that Hannibal hadn't shaved for him only makes it more arousing.

Hannibal wastes no time in just outright licking over his hole and the spark of sensitivity has Wills body tensing, has his hole responsive and clenching. Will has to hold himself here, hold himself open and the task keeps him somewhat grounded. Still, a " _fuck"_ escapes him, grit out but clearly positive. 

Will had known it would be sensitive, but it's far more intense than mere fingers had been. Hannibal doesn't go crazy with it, but he's not too slow either. Will shudders as he tries to get acclimated to the press of Hannibal's hot wet tongue licking over where he's most sensitive. Will's hand on the bed clenches info a fist as antsy pleasure crawls over his skin. It's not too long before Will leans down and parts his lips again, taking in Hannibal's cock. It's a little tricky to do without a hand holding the base of Hannibal's dick, but he eventually manages it. Porn always makes this shit look easier.

Will sucks hard on the tip, he laps, almost in desperation to distract himself from what Hannibal is doing. He's not very successful and after a few slightly more pointed licks, Will is groaning, mouth full of cock and he's rocking back, encouraging Hannibal.

* * *

Hannibal has always enjoyed using his mouth on his partners, and Will most of all. There is something raw and honest in Will's reactions, something low and guttural and clipped that always seems to escape him when brought to this point. Hannibal enjoys being able to take his time, enjoys being able to take Will's cock into his mouth and give him pleasure in such an intimate fashion. Will's open honesty - fingers in his hair, his low grunts and moans, the desperate roll of his hips - always thrills Hannibal. As he allows himself to bask in this perfect moment, as he truly comprehends what Will has decided to do for him, he knows that this will be no different. It's Will allowing him something he's ached for, though not with conscious thought. It's equality and treat at the same time and Hannibal basks in the shattering intimacy of this delicate moment.

Will's response is everything he could have hoped for. Hannibal feels the reaction viscerally, dazed with his own arousal as he caresses Will's hole with his lips, his tongue. Hannibal feels it twitch and clench, _sees_ the response when he pulls back enough, and the knowledge that Will has given him this level of trust is almost gutting. So Hannibal exhales roughly, a soft, almost reverent sound, and when he leans back up, there is nothing hesitant in his movements. He opens his mouth wide, presses wet open-mouthed kisses to such beautifully sensitive skin, more than aware that Will's body must be aching and slightly sore from the other night. It is also for that reason that Hannibal takes his time, groaning low as he traces the slightly-swollen furled skin with his tongue, thanking and soothing with every touch.

Had he his hands free, Hannibal knows he would have delighted in baring Will to him like this, would have basked in the intimacy, but there is something wholly satisfying about this. It is a reward for his submission whilst maintaining dominance. Hannibal is honestly impressed, though his focus is not on Will's cleverness but rather this moment. The feeling of Will's mouth suddenly returning to Hannibal's cock is almost too much, and Hannibal's groan is low and rough as Will takes the head of his cock back in and sucks _hard_. 

Hannibal's legs tremble with the effort it takes to stay still, to not thrust, and so he focuses his restless energy and pleasure on his own task. He licks, he kisses, he nuzzles, and when Will groans around his cock and begins to rock back, Hannibal answers the sound and tenses his tongue, giving Will something to rock back _against_.

Each roll of Will's hips leaves Hannibal's lips wet with saliva. He can feel it cool on his chin, but there is no dignity lost in giving Will pleasure. Hannibal's groan is low and encouraging, and he knows his jaw will ache fiercely later, but he wishes nothing more than this. So when he notes Will's distraction, the urge to _please_ , to _reward_ tears through him. With a lingering, wet kiss, Hannibal draws back and nuzzles his cheek against the sensitive skin close to Will's hole, breathing hot and rough.

"Tend... tend to me as you can. But please, allow me to do this for you? _Take_ what you want from me, and I will freely give it, Will."

* * *

It still seems a little unbelievable that they're doing this. And this - Hannibal eating out his ass while Will sucks him - is pretty damn erotic. It also seems almost outrageous too. Will can't help but remember his first impression of Hannibal - more or less a dandy - well-dressed and refined, but untouchable. But right now as Hannibal's tongue licks against his hole, Hannibal's head practically buried in Will's ass? It's as far from refined as possible and Will doesn't mind at all.

Will knows this is akin to giving Hannibal a treat. Hannibal had done well by sharing, by opening up and trusting Will, both with the knowledge and then the submission. Now Will is rewarding Hannibal with something Hannibal has wanted for quite some time. Later, Will is going to feel damn humbled and lucky to be given this opportunity, to be given this _gift._ If anything, these are mutual gifts and it's been hard fought to get to this point where they can both willingly give and receive. 

This needs to be cherished. This love needs to be protected and fiercely guarded and Will knows he's going to do it. They both will. They will be each other's keepers and he knows, that even if their end is going to be disastrous, every second before that point Will is going to indulge -- he's going to worship. 

So, he gives himself to Hannibal. He holds himself open for Hannibal to lick and taste, and strange-but-pleasurable sensations shoot through him. Will enjoys feeling Hannibal tremble, knowing that he's restraining himself from thrusting -- from the instinctual urge to find more heat and wetness in his mouth. 

But Hannibal doesn't. It's not the easiest position to manage for Will, but he tries. Hannibal is worth trying for. And when Hannibal pulls his face away, first kissing then nuzzling his skin, Will _mmm_ 's around Hannibal's cock. He forces himself to listen and Will feels emotion lance through him. 

Hannibal wants him to take. Hannibal will give it freely. Will can't speak as Hannibal's cock is still in his mouth, but Will bobs his head in answer and he pushes his ass back to indicate he wants Hannibal to return to his former task. 

* * *

Each exquisite second of Will's mouth around him is nothing short of bliss. Hannibal doesn't take this for granted, aware that Will's willingness to perform this particular task varies over time. Had he never wished to do this again, Hannibal would have been content, but knowing that Will is doing this _for him_ is enough to send a different pleasure shooting through him. Whenever Hannibal allows himself to focus on it, he is taken aback by the sheer magnitude of Will doing this for him. It is beyond simple lust and pleasure. It is a gift, a willingness to subject himself to the risk of triggering memories simply to cater to Hannibal's needs, his pleasure. The least that Hannibal can do is give in return, and he ensures that despite how simple it would be to rock his hips into Will's wet heat, he keeps still. 

The hum around him makes his muscles jump with pleasure, a clipped sound escaping him as the pleasure spikes sharply enough to make him leak with desire. But it is the way Will nods and presses back, eager, urging Hannibal to do as he wants that truly undoes him. Hannibal's hands ball into tight fists and he can feel the throbbing in his fingertips that indicates he's been pulling too tightly against the ties. Being bound had not been worrying before. It isn't now. But Hannibal _feels_ the bindings more now as he lifts his chin, parting his lips as he eagerly licks hotly and wetly over tightly-furled skin. Had he the gift of his hands free now, Hannibal knows he would have been spreading Will wider, would have been pulling Will back with barely-restrained need. That he can't - that he must allow Will to control even this - is difficult, but it is perhaps one of the best measures of submission possible. 

It doesn't deny him what he wants, but it regulates him. It is clever, and as pleasure sparks bright behind Hannibal's eyes, he groans rough, grabs at the spindles of the bed in his hands for _something_ to do, and he throws himself into doing this for Will. 

Hannibal tastes. He licks broadly and matches his pace to Will's, gentling into kisses and kittenish licks when Will's fervor abates and surging into sucking kisses and deep, pointed licks and intentional thrusts of his tongue. Hannibal tastes Will's residual soreness from the other night, a hint of rawness that he aches to soothe. 

Instead he allows Will to take as he wishes, meeting him with a thrust of his tongue every time Will desperately rocks back and ensuring that Will can feel the roughness of his stubble whenever he so wishes. The thought of bringing Will pleasure like this is arousing, and Hannibal feels the silken heat of Will's mouth reaching a higher temptation, his cock throbbing as Will's attention continues.

* * *

Will loses track of time in this. It's not the most comfortable of positions, but he perseveres. He sucks while pushing back on Hannibal's tongue. He's still a little sore from last night, but it's not bad, certainly not enough to stop. Will has the feeling that some of Hannibal's licks are aimed to actually soothe him, to lick at the potential concept of a wound and make it better. Will's cock aches at the thought. Will's heart might also ache.

Hannibal is still bound, but he's eager and giving and Will lets himself indulge and together they revere each other. He tastes the saltiness of a bead of pre-come from Hannibal's own cock and Will doesn't mind. He licks along Hannibal's slit willingly. It's a myriad of obscene sounds of slick skin and moans as Will fucks himself on Hannibal's face. He worships. They worship. 

And when Will pulls off of Hannibal's cock and moves away from Hannibal's tongue, Will's body is tingling. Arousal and love are so tightly wrapped with each other that it almost feels overwhelming. Surely there can be no space in between them. They're conjoined. The cells of their hearts somehow finding a way to fuse. (Why would they ever need a ring?) Will kisses Hannibal's thigh and when he looks up and meets Hannibal's eyes, Will tells Hannibal that he's going to make love to him. How could he not?

Will doesn't rush nor does he push. He is thorough in preparing Hannibal. And he knows Hannibal could take it if he wasn't. Hannibal has before. Hannibal has a high pain tolerance, but what interest is there in inflicting physical pain on Hannibal? It's love and tenderness that shake this man - Will's own god, his equal - and Will plans on shaking Hannibal to his very core. Perhaps it won't be every day that they're broken and remade together, but they have each crumbled and been built back up.

Good, evil, the wendigo with his eye... It doesn't matter. 

Three fingers deep, Will pumps slowly into Hannibal's body. His other hand rubs and touches Hannibal, ensuring that Hannibal is cared for, that Hannibal is extolled. "Don't worry, I'll untie your wrists."

* * *

This goes beyond the intimacy of allowing Will to take and do whatever he pleases. This is submission. This is trust. Hannibal basks in it, and as they arch and moan softly and indulge in one another so completely, he feels helpless to the surge of affection and desire that crests within him. Hannibal's body shows its arousal, but it is his mind that aches with the need for this man. It is his mind that stretches luxuriously as Will's mouth sucks so perfectly, and it is his mind that desires this man so completely when Will chases each swipe of Hannibal's tongue. 

Yet even when the landscape shifts, even when Will's touch soothes and Hannibal _feels_ the shiver in Will's body as he moves away, leaving Hannibal's chin wet and his eyes burning with need, his desire for Will doesn't fade. He trusts him just as much as he had moments ago, and Hannibal's shuddering moan is nearly-exultant when Will tells him what he intends. Hannibal doesn't decline, though even bound and spread beneath Will like a feast for his senses, he knows that he _could_ and that Will would allow him his decision. It is that quiet sense of power and the overwhelming desire to _have_ Will once more that spurs him on.

Will's fingers are like a balm to his senses. The first is but a small ache, a promise of more. Hannibal arches, feeling the tie around his wrists that much more when he must allow Will to decide when he's ready. Will lingers. By the time he moves onto a second finger, Hannibal's body is singing with sensitivity, his cock damp with precome, his eyes hooded, and then Will begins anew. He shudders and twists and breathes Will's name like it is prayer and obscenity. He takes every second, remaining in his restraints, allowing Will to watch as he draws the responses from Hannibal's body. Every bit of focused attention to his prostate brings with it a bow of his spine and a hiss of desire, and when Will has three fingers in him and Hannibal's body aches for more, Hannibal blinks past the shade of heavy desire etched into his flushed skin. He reaches out with one leg, hardly able to lift it for its shaking in pleasure, and he wraps it half-way around Will's back, his head tipping back against the pillows.

"If..." Hannibal swallows and clears his throat, feeling the frisson of sensation as his body tightens around Will's fingers. The shadows in his mind are gone, chased away by Will. "If you wish me to remain like this, I would allow it," he breathes. His hands are darker, circulation restricted by the force of his tugging but not to a level that might be damaging. "I want what _you_ wish of me. Please..."

* * *

Hannibal's body is hot and clenching, his hole twitching in sensitivity. It welcomes Will's fingers readily and now Will knows how good it can feel to have _more_ and to be filled. Will is quite familiar with Hannibal's body. He pumps his fingers steadily and every so often he curls them to elicit that delicious sharper pleasure within Hannibal. Will gazes down at Hannibal, unable to take his eyes off of the man he's got tied to their bed. 

This is his life. Giving and taking. Worshipping. Pushing. Being pushed. Being accepted. Seen. _Loved_.

Oh, Will knows Hannibal would likely tolerate his wrists being restrained but Will also knows Hannibal struggles with not being able to reach back and touch him. Hannibal has already submitted beautifully to him. Hannibal has bent for him time and time again. Will doesn't need this. He wants Hannibal to touch him. Will also wants Hannibal to know that _he_ knows his lover. (Because he does.)

When a leg curls around his back, Will smiles and does nothing to discourage the action. He listens to Hannibal's labored words, the nails of his free hand scratching down Hannibal's chest to his abdomen.

"Baby, I know you would. I know you would allow it," Will murmurs, his fingers slowing in their pace but making up for it by thrusting harder. The wet-fuck sounds are obscene and spur Will on, his own cock throbbing to get inside of Hannibal. "But maybe what would please me is you being able to reach out and touch me back." 

With one more pointed curl of his fingers, Will is sliding them out and rubbing the extra lube on his cock.

He frees himself of Hannibal's leg in order to crawl to the side. Will works the knot loose and unwraps Hannibal's wrists, the tie being laid over the headboard. Once freed, he lifts Hannibal's wrists to his mouth and kisses along the reddened areas. 

"I want to be my back and you on top of me," Will explains. "Is that okay?"

* * *

Will's nails drag slowly down Hannibal's torso, the bite of pain exquisite. Hannibal's breath stutters, for by now pain and pleasure feel mingled, as had likely been Will's intention. The flickering shadows in his mind have not only vanished, but Hannibal cannot currently focus on the fact that they have been there for so long. Everything has narrowed in on Will, on the bite of his nails, the fondness in his eyes, the steady push and twist of his fingers that tease and ready in equal measure. 

The pet name is a pleasure on its own, but when Will's thrusts slow but push in harder, firmer, his fingers curled and precise, the breath punches from Hannibal's lungs on a low sound. His back bows, his cock aching, and it is almost a blessing that Will sees fit to withdraw at that point. Hannibal's body buzzes with sensation, the edge he'd felt so clearly beginning to sluggishly ebb. 

He doesn't strictly notice Will moving him until suddenly he feels the pressure against his wrists. Still breathing harder, Hannibal glances up, his bangs in his eyes, and watches as Will's fingers untie his wrists with care. Hannibal watches, quiet, but briefly looks close to stricken when Will so tenderly brings Hannibal's wrists to his lips. The kiss is difficult to feel through the prickling warmth beginning to return to his hands, but Hannibal can see it. Emotion flares, and he wonders idly if there is anything that he would have denied Will in that moment. 

"Yes," Hannibal whispers, his voice barely steady. 

His fingers curl, stroking over the stubble along Will's cheeks, and though Hannibal is still breathless, as soon as he is able, he slowly sits up and leans in, meeting Will's lips in a quick-but-meaningful kiss. "Yes, that is more than okay. Lie back."

Hannibal moves only because he must, making room for Will on the bed. He watches as Will lays back, admiring the long line of his body, the heat in his eyes, and the clear arousal not only in the heat and flush of his cock, but in the flush already creeping down Will's throat. He looks desperate, and Hannibal doesn't make him wait. 

With careful, slightly-unsteady movements, Hannibal moves closer. He braces one hand on Will's chest because he wishes the connection more than the stability, and then straddles him. There are epics that could be spoken in the seconds between them, but Hannibal says nothing. He looks at Will, meets his eyes, and as he reaches back and steadies his cock, the look in Hannibal's eyes says everything. His head tips back only slightly, his lips parting on a soft, hitched breath of sensation as Hannibal slowly lowers himself, feeling the intense heat and stretch of Will's cock as they join like this. Hannibal's hand curls against Will's chest, his nails digging into Will's skin, but it is tender even so. He doesn't look away from Will once. 

* * *

Will expects it to be okay, but he's still going to ask. Hannibal may have agreed to submit to him, but this position is technically new and Will wants to make certain that Hannibal is fine with trying it out. Will knows that Hannibal being on top of him and sitting on his cock will be fucking amazing for him. It also allows Hannibal some control and Will doesn't mind sharing. Not now. Not after everything. He very much wants to see Hannibal over him and taking his cock. He wants the connection. The trust. The intimacy.

He's told _yes_ and Will feels his stomach clench in delicious anticipation as Hannibal moves. Moving means one step closer to getting inside of Hannibal, but Will isn't disappointed that Hannibal first kisses him. Hannibal is in a beautiful disarray that Will wishes he could capture, be it with a photo or in art. The wet mouth, the messy hair, the stubbled growth -- it's all very attractive. And Will kisses back, uncaring of where Hannibal's mouth had previously been. _Worship_ doesn't have to be pretty.

When the kiss breaks, Will situates himself in the middle of their bed, settling on his back. His cock is jutting out and waiting and thankfully Hannibal doesn't make him wait for long because Hannibal is moving, coming closer, straddling him and then looking down at him. 

Will doesn't look away. He couldn't if he tried. Will's mouth parts to breathe heavier when one of Hannibal's hands reaches back to hold his dick still. And Will says nothing, he doesn't push. He waits for Hannibal to spear himself down onto his waiting cock and Hannibal doesn't disappoint. Hannibal doesn't make him wait. 

Hannibal slowly eases himself down and Will's eyes are rapt and gazing back at Hannibal. He doesn't thrust up, allowing Hannibal to dictate this. Heat and a slick tightness envelop Will's cock and as nails lightly scratch, Will can't help but arch up as Hannibal bottoms out and comes to rest on his thighs. 

Will groans, chest heaving and sweat dripping down the side of his face. It's Heaven and Hell coming together. Never has something so destructive been so damn tempting. Hannibal is surely Lucifer incarnate and Will is going to take the bite of the apple again and again.

Will's hands reach out and take Hannibal's reddened wrists. He moves Hannibal's hands to his own neck. "Please," Will murmurs and he knows Hannibal will understand.

* * *

Regardless of how many times they do this, Hannibal doubts the sensation will ever fail to be blissfully overwhelming. It's heat and intensity and connection. It's Hannibal's hands on Will's skin, feeling each deep, gasped breath and quick beat of his heart. It's the silken heat of Will's cock sliding slowly deeper on Hannibal's command. It's Hannibal left looking down at the striking picture Will makes beneath him as pleasure curls through him like molten gold, bringing a flush to his skin and a desperation to each beautiful gasp. Hannibal hardly feels the twinges of discomfort, both because they no longer exist and because the pleasure of connection, of raw desire and care, overshadow everything else. 

They have never done this before and Hannibal feels the oddity in the strain to his legs, but somehow the ache feels all the better. He shudders deeply as Will bottoms out, and Hannibal is left breathing roughly in pleasure as he basks in the sensation of having Will within him once more. It's a startling intimacy, especially after everything. Hannibal feels the sharpness of pleasure like electricity over his skin, and he's so taken by the sheer level of sensation that he only comes back to himself when he feels Will's hands gently touch his wrists. 

Hannibal opens his eyes and watches as Will moves them, the shifting of his weight enough to change the angle within him. Hannibal's breath is more a soft groan, but the moment he feels his hands against Will's throat, he understands. Hannibal nods, just once, a bead of sweat dripping from his chin. He sets one hand over Will's throat, careful, and the other upon his chest for balance, and as Hannibal's hand gently begins to squeeze, he leans in, bending down enough to press a lingering kiss to Will's forehead, then another down his cheek. Hannibal's lips press to the scar on Will's jaw, and when he kisses him again, it's with a tightening of his hand.

"Knock thrice against the headboard if you need to stop," Hannibal breathes, for this will always be their dynamic, an undulating shift in power. 

Dominance and submission in a gentle wave, always transitioning, always fluctuating. Hannibal feels the pulse of Will's throat under his hand and kisses him again, lingering, with a quiet passion. Then his free hand splays, bracing himself, and he rolls his hips, getting used to how to chase a pleasing rhythm despite the fact that this is new for them both. Hannibal's groan is soft as he begins to lift himself up and sink back down, but it's good. 

_They_ are good.

* * *

Like a pendulum, they will swing back and forth. Give and take. Control and submit. They've come a long way that they're able to do this, to embrace the variance between them. And Will knows that there will be bumps in the future, but he thinks they've gone through the worst of it. Whatever comes at them, external or internal, they will face it together and knowing that... It's worth everything to Will and he won't have anyone take this from him.

It's this surety that emboldens Will, that pushes him to see Hannibal push himself. Hannibal over top of him but taking his cock? It's an incredibly arousing sight and an even better feeling. There exists a thrill in knowing that Hannibal can exert some control over this activity. It's taken some time for Will to come to grips with the enjoyment he can experience when Hannibal takes control. It still feels a little strange, a little surreal that he would willingly put himself in such positions, but Will no longer feels bad about it.

It doesn't feel wrong or scandalous. It's just them and he wants it all.

Over top of him, Hannibal is beautiful and fierce. Sweaty, hair in disarray, the longer stubble. Will doesn't look away. He doesn't close his eyes. He looks up and sees the understanding in Hannibal's eyes and then a hand is placed over his throat. Will's pulse speeds up in response, anticipation and excitement shooting through him. Hannibal's other hand comes to brace itself on Will's chest. Then there is an increase of pressure around Will's throat and Will gasps and moves his head slightly just to feel out Hannibal's grip. When kisses are placed on his skin, Will rewards Hannibal with a roll of his hips.

Will isn't surprised or agitated that Hannibal gives him a way to stop this, to knock three times on the headboard. He knows it's important to be careful, it doesn't piss him off anymore. Will's own hands come to hold Hannibal's hips and when Hannibal finally moves, slowly lifting himself up and then bearing back down, Will moans unabashedly. His mouth remains parted as his air flow is slightly constricted. It's agonizing in a delicious way to not be able to do much other than hump up, but Will lets Hannibal choose. He digs his nails into Hannibal's sides and shakes with the pleasure and threat of danger that Hannibal gifts to him.

* * *

Hannibal remembers this. He remembers the feeling of Will's throat under his hands, remembers how delicious it had first felt to restrict his air, to feel him strain, to feel the heightened pleasure running through him. He also remembers Will's hand on his own throat, remembers proudly bearing the bruises, touching them with hidden reverence, for at that time it had been a risk to show his adoration. 

Things are different now. _They_ are different now. Instead of sneers and jeers, instead of anger and taunting, Will's gaze is open in trust and need. When Hannibal's hand wraps around his throat he can feel Will's pulse jump, can feel and _see_ the trust, the desire, the need to give in, and Hannibal's skin prickles with the sensation alone. Will's answering roll of his hips punches a small breath from Hannibal's lungs, makes him ache, and so there is no question as to whether or not Hannibal is going to do this. They've been through so much together, and this feels poignant. This feels like a promise.

Hannibal squeezes his hand as he moves, He feels the stretch of muscles under his palm, feels each breath that Will takes like Hannibal is the one gifting it to him. He feels his pulse, feels his warmth, and aches at the thought that Will's life is willingly in his hands. Will is beautiful and unabashed, his face flushed, his hair a wild mess, each moan sending vibrations through Hannibal's hand that make Hannibal want to cradle and crush in equal measure. He only does the former, breathing hard as the muscles in his legs strain with the effort to keep moving. Like this, Will is _deep_ within him and he feels breathless with the sharp intimacy. Each movement of his hips is met with one of Will's, and when nails dig into his skin, Hannibal lets out a breathless groan, rolling his hips in a slow grind that feels _wonderful_ and leaves him shaking with the unexpected pleasure of it.

Hannibal's muscles clench, involuntarily at the pleasure and then voluntarily when he rolls his hips again, putting slightly more effort into it as he gazes down at Will, lips parted in bliss and adoration as he squeezes Will's throat just the slightest bit tighter. 

"So beautiful... you... you look a vision like this. My Will," Hannibal adds, with a shuddering groan as he finds the angle that makes his cock leak precome onto Will's abdomen. 

* * *

Yes, Hannibal could kill him. Hannibal could crush his windpipe. Or he could completely restrict the blood flow to Will's brain or oxygen to his lungs. But Will has had plenty of opportunities to strike as well, to become the mongoose under the stairs... Sometimes Hannibal falls asleep before he does. Of course, it hasn't always been that way. No. Hannibal's trust wasn't so easily tossed to him. It had taken months of sleeping next to Hannibal for Hannibal to eventually be able to drift off to sleep before Will did.

Will doesn't take that for granted. Not anymore. They're both dangerous, both predators lying in wait. It doesn't matter who wears the collar and who holds the leash in hand because they're both collared and leashed to each other. Masters and the mastered. And this dynamic - _them_ \- it's something Will is proud about. It's been a journey, that infamous upward battle and they've made it. They've fucking made it.

Hannibal's body is tight and perfect around his cock, hot and gripping and the added excitement of Hannibal on top _and_ Hannibal choking him - by his request - only adds to the erotic thrill. Will is in no rush here, but he's not sure he's going to last all that long either. Even though his eyes have begun to water a little, Will sees Hannibal shake. Hannibal loves this, too. Loves the threat and the submission and dominance flowing back and forth between them.

Hannibal loves this connection, Will so utterly deep within him. And now Will knows how it feels too, how it feels to be open and receptive and full. Known and seen and loved.

And when Hannibal clenches around him, Will lets out a ragged gasp. Pleasure surges through him, his heart pounding in his chest when Hannibal's grip tightens slightly. The words given to him don't undo Will. He doesn't try to look away or close his eyes. He lets himself be beautiful. He lets himself be a vision. He lets himself be Hannibal's. Will's hands grip Hannibal's hips tightly and Will bucks up, thrusting into Hannibal and needing to do just that -- needing to take a little control back. They're deeper thrusts, aimed to be quicker, but still for their mutual enjoyment.

* * *

The connection between them is absolute. Watching the expression on Will's face, his pleasure, his desperation, as Hannibal rolls his hips and feels the deep, aching pleasure of their joining, Hannibal knows that they could not be more connected were they to whisper vows and exchange rings. There is a blinding control and submission between them, something transient, interchangeable, always fluctuating. A closed circuit, stable but wild within its confines. It is evident in every breath, in every shudder and gasp. It is evident in the way one of Hannibal's hands braces himself upon Will's chest, his nails digging in, while the other hardly moves from its grip on Will's throat. In one hand is chaos in pleasure, the other a mindful, caring control. The metaphor suits them well.

It is beyond simple pleasure, beyond mere connection. Will looks up at Hannibal with eternity in his eyes and Hannibal chases every second of it, from beginning to end. His body moves but the physical, despite the aching pleasure, is not the focus. Not when he meets Will's eyes and sees everything he needs to see. Not when it's right. 

Hannibal is so caught that he misses Will's shift, misses his desperation, though he does not miss the first of many quick, sharp, thrusts when they come. Hannibal's voice feels startled out of him, the flood of pleasure sudden and quick as he hitches a cry, his nails digging into Will's chest, though the hand on his throat does not falter. His head bows, lips parted on another soundless cry and Hannibal leans in, bracing himself more against Will's chest to make room for him to move. And move he does, his hips bucking up, cock driving in deep and quick, and Hannibal shakes with the sensation, breathless. 

He takes every thrust, rolling his hips back, desire burning under his skin, and yet even as he looks down at Will with open pleasure, he knows they won't last long. Hannibal is too close from Will's thorough fingering, and he suspects that Will had worked himself up then too. He bends then, carefully leaning down to press a kiss to Will's lips, more a brush of lips than anything real, for he's breathing too hard and Will cannot breathe the way he likely wishes to. Hannibal kisses him anyway, meeting Will thrust for thrust as his breath catches and shudders the closer he gets. 

"Will," Hannibal manages to breathe out, almost reverent. Almost a prayer. He doesn't have the breath left to tell him he's growing close, but somehow he knows that Will already knows.

* * *

Will remembers feeling so lost and directionless upon discovering that he was alive -- that they _both_ were alive and had made it. There would be no easy way out, no romantic death for the two of them. He'd been bitter and desperate. Caustic. Reckless. Difficult. Reticent. Unfair. 

And Hannibal had been his rock. Will could run to him if he wished, could lean against him like a pillar. But no, Will hadn't always wanted to find peace and stability. He hadn't wanted that enduring patience and infuriating calm. Sometimes Will had simply desired to dash himself upon the rocks, his blood and guts spilling out onto sand like a Rorschach.

It had been a tug o' war at times. Will seeking to test and push and Hannibal allowing him to wiggle his way out of his chrysalis. However, a safety net had been constructed for him in case wet sticky wings had failed him. Will had never veered too far off the path, he hadn't been allowed to jump off another cliff. No Rorschachs. No escaping Hannibal. No escaping them. 

Instead, they've discovered _them._ They have learned to love, learned each other's bodies like a priest learns scripture. They have spoken about the shadows that linger inside their minds, the hidden fears contained inside their hearts. It hadn't been easy or painless, but they've crawled through the mud and come out on the other side. This is now the rain. The downpour washing away all the filth. 

So Will lets any concerns go. Hannibal has him, a hand gripped around his throat, the other on his chest, nails digging in. They fuck. They make love. They see each other. They love. They worship.

Hannibal meets his thrusts. Hannibal's mouth presses a kiss to his own parted lips. And he can see Hannibal's need, and feel his own rushing ahead. Permission doesn't matter right now -- Hannibal has it. Will wants it. Wants Hannibal to come. He hears Hannibal utter his name and Will slows his thrusts, going for deep instead of quick. Will doesn't look away. He doesn't close his eyes when he finally does come, pleasure exploding across his body as he fills Hannibal. 

* * *

The shadows will remain, will spread thin between them as each second ticks on for the rest of their lives. But the more each shadow stretches, the thinner it will become until it will be but a shade, thin as rice paper and just as easy to break. What once had been solid granite is now fragile with Will's support behind it. Perhaps the pain will remain for quite some time yet, but Hannibal had faced the shadows with Will by his side, had voiced them, had allowed the words to spill into light for the first time. Together they have taken the first step towards dashing them. 

The shadows have slid from Hannibal's mind in that moment, replaced by brilliance, by the sight of Will beneath him. Favor and fervor battle in his mind as he feels each blissful snap of Will's hips, and yet somehow it feels like so much more than mere sex. He feels Will's body under him, feels the rapid beating of his heart under Hannibal's hand, feels each flex and twitch of his throat as he struggles for breath with the other. It feels akin to being connected to the very things keeping this man alive. Hannibal could suddenly shove, could interrupt Will's heartbeat. He could squeeze his other hand, could suffocate him, could steal life away with such aching ease.

And yet Will had willingly asked this of him, had _trusted_ him enough to allow him this. That trust goes right through him, stoking his desire higher, fanning the flames until there is no distinction between them and the roar of pleasure and connection in his mind. 

Hannibal's breathing is ragged, his muscles flexing with effort as he meets Will thrust for thrust, but when he gazes down at Will and sees the look in his eyes, _feels_ the connection, and then feels that first hard, driving thrust, he knows it's over. 

Hannibal's breath catches on a gasp and his nails slide against Will's chest, drawing welts wet with sweat to the surface, but neither of them seem to notice. Hannibal feels Will's pulse race, feels the tightening of his muscles as Will's orgasm nears, and his own almost catches him off guard as Will's angle shifts and strikes precisely where it needs to. Hannibal's vision feels stolen from him for a moment as pleasure races, his arms threatening to give out as he takes those final few thrusts and then falls.

His hand tightens briefly on Will's throat, cutting off his air, but Hannibal doesn't close his eyes as he watches Will fall apart under him. His own orgasm steals over him with almost vicious delight and Hannibal shakes, grinding down on Will's pulsing cock as he spills over Will's chest, over the welts left behind, his body quaking with bliss but his eyes never closing. 

Only when he knows Will can take it no more, when he cannot possibly raise Will's pleasure beyond what it is does Hannibal take his hand from Will's throat, and only then does he bury his fingers in Will's hair, holding him as they fall apart together.

* * *

Hannibal's nails dig into his chest, likely leaving welts. Will remembers wanting his own fingers to change into sharpened claws like the wendigo and to claw past Hannibal's defenses, to rake past the hardened layers.

He has. 

They both have.

Will is not alone as his pleasure peaks and Hannibal's hand tightens and only drives Will's bliss higher. He sees the alluring edge of a cliff, the wicked draw to reckless abandonment (and he's pulled them both down before, there will always be hungry oceans to devour the wicked). Hannibal could squeeze and squeeze and Will could shake and shake. He feels the giddy high of an orgasm tinged by the hypoxia. It's a fucking rush. It's his own drug and Hannibal is both his drug and his dealer and Will trusts and trusts and trusts. In this moment he'd ruck up his shirt and let Hannibal slash, he'd open his mouth and let Hannibal feed down a tube.

But there is no black abyss awaiting for him, there is no icy water stinging at his eyes. Instead, Will feels the hot splatter of Hannibal's come on him. He feels Hannibal's body spasm around him, greedy for every last drop, to drain him dry and Will's orgasm is intense and visceral. Neither of them close their eyes. Their bodies glisten with sweat, their hair is askew. Will flies on the near-delirium until Hannibal's grip relaxes.

And then Hannibal leans over him, becoming like a shelter as their foreheads rest against each other's. And Hannibal _is_ his shelter. Through the storms, some of their own making, others not. Will has no doubt about that. One hand lifts to cover the Verger brand, while the other rests atop the gunshot wound. When Will speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

"Jusqu'à notre fin..." Will takes a breath and then lets it go. For once, his body and heart and soul are at peace. "Je t'aime." (Until our end... I love you.)

* * *

They both have fallen. Weeks, months, _years_ , and they have fallen physically, emotionally, and everything in between. They have fallen apart and fallen in love (at least partly), and the knowledge is claws in Hannibal's flesh and fire underneath it. This moment feels visceral in a way few have before it. It isn't just the sex, but the equality. It is what Will has asked of him, and what Hannibal had allowed. Whispered words of vulnerability in the dark. Words that Hannibal had never once spoken aloud before. It seems fitting now that he had offered them up to Will in the safety of this place. Simple, isolated, a home of their own making. A den away from the world, where only the two of them dare to exist. Where Will can claw away a monster's shell and coax him into the light, and where said monster can allow himself to relinquish control he so viciously once protected. Honesty. Trust. 

Will's gasp fills Hannibal with fire of their own making as pleasure wracks them both and then settles into a milder flame. Sparks shoot through them, physical twitches of sensation and closeness but neither of them seem to notice as Hannibal leans over Will, their foreheads pressing together, sharing breath and warmth and gripping one another with such passion that immolation seems a sensible final step. Hannibal breathes in the thick scent of sex and sweat and all the intricacies that make up Will Graham, feels the softness of his hair and the firm body under him. He blankets Will with his body and Will in turn tethers him down with hands pressed to the scars of their history.

Their shaking breaths are like hymns in the silence. Hannibal clutches Will with the same fervor. And it is like this, seeking shelter in one another, that Will's voice breaks through the silence, clear and beautiful as a crystal dagger sliding home into Hannibal's heart. 

Hannibal's breath is a sob, as though the air has been forced from his lungs. He stills under the rush of emotion, of surprise, and when he lifts his head, his expression is nothing short of raw, awed wonder. He looks at Will in silence with quick flicks of his eyes, as if searching out the deception, the fallacy, but there is nothing. Will's eyes are open and clear, and while Hannibal had _known_ , he had never expected to _hear_.

He cups Will's cheek with one hand, his touch so soft that it hardly dares to exist. He looks. He searches. And when he finds nothing even then, Hannibal's eyes burn with emotion that he doesn't dare to hide. Vulnerability has a place between them. Hannibal swallows and ducks his head, answering Will's earth-shattering admission with a kiss so gentle that one might believe them both capable of shattering.

"Until our end and whatever lies beyond," Hannibal vows in a whisper against Will's lips.

* * *

Even now as the words slip past his lips, Will remembers claiming that he was never going to fall in love, that he would never give Hannibal his heart. He'd been cruel, his tone caustic. Frustration, desperation, and guilt had been eating away at him but Hannibal had endured him lashing out time and time again. Hannibal had endured his deception and wariness and there are no words to express the gratitude Will feels (but Hannibal doesn't require it).

Those words had passed between Molly and him easily enough and Will thinks that, yes, even now, he did love Molly in a way, but it's nothing in comparison to Hannibal. How could it be? Will had been more than resistant to the idea. He'd been unable to say it (although he'd asked and demanded Hannibal to say the words to him). Words don't necessarily mean anything, just like rings, but they _can._

Hannibal would stay with him. Will has no doubt about it. Hannibal, still, only _needs_ his company, but Hannibal wants all of him, wants everything and Will is finally ready to acknowledge that Hannibal does have the key to his heart. It's cheesy, sure, but that doesn't change the fact that Hannibal had managed to win him over so completely. Will is not fearless, but he isn't afraid of telling Hannibal this profound truth. 

And the truth doesn't set him free, but he's not bound. This is right where Will wants to be. 

They look at each other and he's not surprised or offended that Hannibal takes a moment to ensure Will isn't lying as he looks at him.

Will isn't. He gazes into Hannibal's eyes and the hand against his face touches him softly, the kiss a mere whisper. He knows intimately that Hannibal can both be sharp and gentle. And Hannibal can be vulnerable too because Will sees the redness in Hannibal's eyes. 

Will doesn't know what lies beyond their end. He's never been all too concerned with the notions of Heaven or Hell. Living was too complicated. He personally thinks that the dead just rot in a box, but if there is a beyond, if there is something, Will knows it'll be with Hannibal. 

* * *

If actions have consequences, theirs have long been so twisted and woven into the very fabric of reality that the consequences have become their own existence. Meeting Will and inviting his company had led to a mutual fascination, which had ultimately led to friendship, betrayal, fury, loss, hope, and love. Each concept is a thread, woven beautifully over their history. In places perhaps they seem out of place but now, together, the wild tangles and haphazard shreds have become something more. Something real. 

There is no more to say that evening. They stay awake long into the night, touching, fingertips grazing, lips brushing, the once-torn tapestry full and unraveling in front of them once more. Will carefully cleans and checks Hannibal's wrists and Hannibal allows him his moment of care. The silence is comfortable, nestled amidst the wonder of their individual truths that evening. They wash, and when they finally retire to bed, Hannibal invites Will in close, welcoming Will's head upon his chest. He doesn't argue when Will sleepily shifts their positions halfway through the night, though he might have in the past. Will has more than proven himself capable, just as Hannibal has proven himself open. The doors on their lives are no longer tightly locked, but nudged open, welcoming each other inside.

When Hannibal wakes, it takes him long minutes to realize that Will's words - that _last night_ \- had not been a dream. The ache in his body and the darkening, beautiful bruise on Will's throat whisper of truth. Of reality.

Hannibal spends a long time looking at Will that morning, as he will for mornings to come. He reaches out and brushes his fingers through Will's hair, as Will has rolled away slightly during the night, but one of his hands seems fixed to Hannibal's leg, as if seeking the connection even while separate. Hannibal touches and presses close, warmed by Will's presence, by the soft sighs, by the sounds of _life_. 

He traces every inch of Will's face in the soft barely-there light of the dawn, from the elegant line of his nose, down to the slightly-patchy places on his beard where the scars have long-since taken roost. Hannibal presses a kiss to the silver scar where Cordell's scalpel had set everything in motion, and touches the scar upon Will's forehead with a regretful reverence, a vow to never slip so far again. 

Time marches on as he watches, as he admires, and as he deliberates. His gaze falls to the pale band of skin upon Will's finger and Hannibal reaches out to take his hand in silence. Will's fingers curl slightly, as if accepting it, and he watches for a long time.

Commitment of any official sort will never be possible, not with their real names. But possible or not, Hannibal is a fanciful man at heart. He thinks back, recalling Will's reaction to his ring in the bespoke shop so long ago, how Will had nearly fallen apart when he'd realized that Hannibal had let something so blasphemous slide for so long. Hannibal strokes the pale band of skin, deliberating for awhile.

He is fanciful, after all, and there are times where his flights of fancy can lead him to more... impulsive decisions. For a long time he decides to resist, to merely lock that part of his thoughts away. But Will had admitted to _loving_ him last night, had voiced words that he'd swore he'd never say, and if Will never says them again, they will still mean more than any signatures on a piece of paper ever could.

Why give the state the right when it is just them? It's always been them, from their beginning to their end. And it is that thought that finally makes Hannibal lean back and open the drawer beside him. He's quiet, almost hesitant as he does it, but he pulls a small box out. A fanciful notion when he'd been feeling particularly fond. 

The velvet upon it is soft to touch and Hannibal thumbs it for a long moment. Then, finally, he turns back to Will, opens the box, and withdraws a simple platinum band. Nothing so garish as the gold he'd worn, but something suited specifically to him. Hannibal lays there for a long while, deliberating even then.

Then he reaches for Will's hand and quietly slips the ring down to settle over the pale band of skin. He makes no fanfare about it, for what could tell Will more than the trust he'd shown the night before? Hannibal looks at it for a long time, his cheek pressed to Will's hair. Then he slowly wraps an arm around him and feels Will settle back against his chest.

They will need to move on to another place in time, and leaving this place that has become home will be jarring even to Hannibal. But as he holds Will and hears a softer, sleepy murmur, and feels Will's fingers find his own, he knows that _this_ is home. The two of them. Hannibal closes his eyes and smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! ♡‿♡


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